THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

IN  MEMORY  OF 
EDWIN  CORLE 


PRESENTED  BY 
JEAN  CORLE 


REVERIES  OF  A 
BACHELOR 


PHItADLL 


DONALD  G.  MITCHELL 
€ 


or  A 

BACHELOR 


PREFACE. 


THIS  book  is  neither  more,  nor  less 
than  it  pretends  to  be ;  it  is  a  collec- 
tion of  those  floating  Reveries  which 
have,  from  time  to  time,  drifted  across  my 
brain.     I  never  yet  met  with  a  bachelor 
who  had  not  his  share  of  just  such  floating 
visions ;  and  the  only  difference  between 
us  lies  in  the  fact,  that  I  have  tossed  them 
from  me  in  the  shape  of  a  Book. 

If  they  had  been  worked  over  with  more 
unity  of  design,  I  dare  say  I  might  have 
made  a  respectable  novel ;  as  it  is,  I  have 
chosen  the  honester  way  of  setting  them 
down  as  they  came  seething  from  my 
thought,  with  all  their  crudities  and  con^ 
trasts,  uncovered. 

As  for  the  truth  that  is  in  them,  the 
world  may  believe  what  it  likes ;  for  having 
(v) 


2035330 


TI  PREFACE. 

written  to  humor  the  world,  it  would  be 
hard,  if  I  should  curtail  any  of  its  privi- 
leges of  judgment.  I  should  think  there 
was  as  much  truth  in  them,  as  in  most 
Reveries. 

The  first  story  of  the  book  has  already 
had  some  publicity ;  and  the  criticisms 
upon  it  have  amused,  and  pleased  me. 
One  honest  journalist  avows  that  it  could 
never  have  been  written  by  a  bachelor.  I 
thank  him  for  thinking  so  well  of  me ;  and 
heartily  wish  that  his  thought  were  as  true, 
as  it  is  kind. 

Yet  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  bache. 
tors  are  the  only  safe,  and  secure  observers 
of  all  the  phases  of  married  life.  The  rest 
of  the  world  have  their  hobbies;  and  by 
law,  as  well  as  by  immemorial  custom,  are 
reckoned  unfair  witnesses  in  everything 
relating  to  their  matrimonial  affairs. 

Perhaps  I  ought  however  to  make  an 
exception  in  favor  of  spinsters,  who  like  us, 
are  independent  spectators,  and  possess 
just  that  kind  of  indifference  to  the  mari- 
tal state,  which  makes  them  intrepid  in 


PREFACE.  vil 

their  observations,  and  very  desirable  for 
— authorities. 

As  for  the  style  of  the  book,  I  have  noth- 
ing to  say  for  it,  except  to  refer  to  my  title. 
These  are  not  sermons,  nor  essays,  nor  criti- 
cisms ; — they  are  only  Reveries.  And  if 
the  reader  should  stumble  upon  occasional 
magniloquence,  or  be  worried  with  a  little 
too  much  of  sentiment,  pray,  let  him  re- 
member,— that  I  am  dreaming. 

But  while  I  say  this,  in  the  hope  of  nick- 
ing off  the  wiry  edge  of  my  reader's  judg- 
ment, I  shall  yet  stand  up  boldly  for  the 
general  tone,  and  character  of  the  book. 
If  there  is  bad  feeling  in  it,  or  insincerity, 
or  shallow  sentiment,  or  any  foolish  depth 
of  affection  betrayed, — I  am  responsible ; 
and  the  critics  may  expose  it  to  their  heart's 
content. 

I  have  moreover  a  kindly  feeling  for  these 
Reveries,  from  their  very  private  charac- 
ter ;  they  consist  mainly  of  just  such  whim- 
seys,  and  reflections,  as  a  great  many 
brother  bachelors  are  apt  to  indulge  in,  but 
which  they  are  too  cautious,  or  too  prudent 


viii  PREFACE. 

to  lay  before  the  world.  As  I  have  in  this 
matter,  shown  a  frankness,  and  naivetf 
which  are  unusual,  I  shall  ask  a  correspond- 
ing frankness  in  my  reader;  and  I  can  as- 
sure him  safely  that  this  is  eminently  one 
of  those  books  which  were  '  never  intended 
for  publication.' 

In  the  hope  that  this  plain  avowal  may 
quicken  the  reader's  charity,  and  screen 
me  from  cruel  judgment, 

I  remain,  with  sincere  good  wishes, 

IK.  MARVEL. 
NEW  YORK,  Nov.  1850. 


CONTENTS. 


FIRST   REVERIE. 

OVER  A  WOOD  FIRE, 15 

I.  Smoke,  signifying  Doubt,         .        .  19 

II.  Blaze,  signifying  Cheer,   ...  29 

III.  Ashes,  signifying  Desolation,  .        .  36 


SECOND   REVERIE. 

BY  A  CITY  GRATE,        .       .       .       .  ,       53 

I.  Sea-Coal,   ...       ...  .        61 

II.  Anthracite,         ....  8c 


THIRD   REVERIE. 
OVER  HIS  CIGAR,    .       .       .       . ...    „       .      101 

I.      Lighted  with  a  Coal,         .        .        .105 


CONTENTS. 

II.  Lighted  with  a  Wisp  of  Paper,        .      119 

III.  Lighted  with  a  Match,  ,      134 


FOURTH   REVERIE. 
,  NOON,  AND  EVENING,  .          .        If  I 

L      Morning — which  is  the  Past,    ,        .      159 
School  Days,         ....       169 

The  Sea, Z8i 

Father-Land,         ,       .        ,        .190 
A  Roman  Girl,      .  199 

The  Appenines,    .        .        .        .210 
Enrica,  ......      219 

II.    Noon— which  is  the  Present,  ,  .      228 

Early  Friends,               .  .  .230 

School  Revisited  .  .      239 

College,         .  .  .      245 

Bella's  Pacquet  .  .      252 


CONTENTS.  xi 

III.  Evening — which  is  the  Future,        .  262 

Carry, 266 

The  Letter, 275 

New  Travel,         ....  282 

Home, 295 


FIRST  REVERIE 


SMOKE,  FLAME  AND  ASHES. 


OVER  A  WOOD  FIRE, 


I  HAVE  got  a  quiet  farmhouse  in  the 
country,  a  very  humble  place  to  be  sure, 
tenanted  by  a  worthy  enough  man, 
of  the  old  New-England  stamp,  where  I 
sometimes  go  for  a  day  or  two  in  the 
winter,  to  look  over  the  farm-accounts,  and 
to  see  how  the  stock  is  thriving  on  the 
winter's  keep. 

One  side  the  door,  as  you  enter  from 
the  porch,  is  a  little  parlor,  scarce  twelve 
feet  by  ten,  with  a  cosy  looking  fire-place 
— a  heavy  oak  floor — a  couple  of  arm 
chairs  and  a  brown  table  with  carved  lions' 
feet.  Out  of  this  rbom  opens  a  little  cab- 
inet, only  big  enough  for  a  broad  bachelor 
bedstead,  where  I  sleep  upon  feathers,  and 
wake  in  the  morning,  with  my  eye  upon  a 
saucy  colored,  lithographic  print  of  some 
fancy  "Bessy." 

It  happens  to  be  the  only  house  in  the 
world,  of  which  I  am  bona-fide  owner ;  and 
I  take  a  vast  deal  of  comfort  in  treating  it 

ds) 


rf  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

just  as  I  choose.  I  manage  to  break  some 
article  of  furniture,  almost  every  time  I 
pay  it  a  visit ;  and  if  I  cannot  open  the 
window  readily  of  a  morning,  to  breathe 
the  fresh  air,  I  knock  out  a  pane  or  two  of 
glass  with  my  boot.  I  lean  against  the 
walls  in  a  very  old  arm-chair  there  is  on 
the  premises,  and  scarce  ever  fail  to  worry 
such  a  hole  in  the  plastering,  as  would  set 
me  down  for  a  round  charge  for  damages 
in  town,  or  make  a  prim  housewife  fret 
herself  into  a  raging  fever.  I  laugh  out 
loud  with  myself,  in  my  big  arm-chair, 
when  I  think  that  I  am  neither  afraid  of 
one  nor  the  other. 

As  for  the  fire,  I  keep  the  little  hearth 
so  hot,  as  to  warm  half  the  cellar  below, 
and  the  whole  space  between  the  jams, 
roars  for  hours  together,  with  white  flame. 
To  be  sure  the  windows  are  not  very  tight, 
between  broken  panes,  and  bad  joints,  so 
that  the  fire,  large  as  it  is,  is  by  no  means 
an  extravagant  comfort. 

As  night  approaches,  I  have  a  huge  pile 
of  oak  and  hickory  placed  beside  the  hearth; 
I  put  out  the  tallow  candle  on  the  mantel, 
(using  the  family  snuffers,  with  one  leg 
broke,) — then,  drawing  my  chair  directly  in 
front  of  the  blazing  wood,  and  setting  one 
foot  on  each  of  the  old  iron  fire-dogs, 
(until  they  grow  too  warm,)  I  dispose 


OVER  A  WOOD  FIRE.  17 

myself  for  an  evening  of  such  sober,  and 
thoughtful  quietude,  as  I  believe,  on  my 
soul,  that  very  few  of  my  fellow-men  have 
the  good  fortune  to  enjoy. 

My  tenant  meantime,  in  the  other  room, 
I  can  hear  now  and  then, — though  there  is 
a  thick  stone  chimney,  and  broad  entry 
between, —  multiplying  contrivances  with 
his  wife,  to  put  two  babies  to  sleep.  This 
occupies  them,  I  should  say,  usually  an 
hour;  though  my  only  measure  of  time, 
(for  I  never  carry  a  watch  into  the  country,) 
is  the  blaze  of  my  fire.  By  ten,  or  there- 
abouts, my  stock  of  wood  is  nearly  ex- 
hausted ;  I  pile  upon  the  hot  coals  what 
remains,  and  sit  watching  how  it  kindles, 
and  blazes,  and  goes  out, — even  like  our 
joys! — and  then,  slip  by  the  light  of  the 
embers  into  my  bed,  where  I  luxuriate  in 
such  sound,  and  healthful  slumber,  as  only 
such  rattling  window  frames,  and  country 
air,  can  supply. 

But  to  return  :  the  other  evening — it 
happened  to  be  on  my  last  visit  to  my 
farm-house — when  I  had  exhausted  all  the 
ordinary  rural  topics  of  thought,  had 
formed  all  sorts  of  conjectures  as  to  the 
income  of  the  year  ;  had  planned  a  new  wall 
around  one  lot,  and  the  clearing  up  of 
another,  now  covered  with  patriarchal  wood ; 
and  wondered  if  the  little  ricketty  house 


i&  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

would  not  be  after  all  a  snug  enough  box, 
to  live  and  to  die  in — I  fell  on  a  sudden 
into  such  an  unprecedented  line  of  thought, 
which  took  such  deep  hold  of  my  sympa- 
thies— sometimes  even  starting  tears — 
that  I  determined,  the  next  day,  to  set  as 
much  of  it  as  I  could  recal,  on  paper. 

Something — it  may  have  been  the  home- 
looking  blaze,  (I  am  a  bachelor  of — say  six 
and  twenty,)  or  possibly  a  plaintive  cry  of 
the  baby  in  my  tenant's  room,  had  sug- 
gested to  me  the  thought  of — Marriage. 

I  piled  upon  the  heated  fire-dogs,  the 
last  arm-full  of  my  wood ;  and  now,  said  I, 
bracing  myself  courageously  between  the 
arms  of  my  chair, — I'll  not  flinch ; — I'll  pur- 
sue the  thought  wherever  it  leads,  though 
it  lead  me  to  the  d —  (I  am  apt  to  be  hasty,) 
— at  least— continued  I,  softening, — until 
my  fire  is  out. 

The  wood  was  green,  and  at  first  showed 
no  disposition  to  blaze.  It  smoked  furi- 
ously. Smoke,  thought  I,  always  goes 
before  blaze ;  and  so  does  doubt  go  before 
decision :  and  my  Reverie,  from  that  very 
starting  point,  slipped  into  this  shape : — 


SMOKE— SIGNIFYING  DOUBT. 

A  WIFE?— thought   I;— yes,  a   wife! 
And  why ! 

And  pray,  my  dear  sir,  why  not — 
why  ?  Why  not  doubt ;  why  not  hesitate ; 
why  not  tremble  ? 

Does  a  man  buy  a  ticket  in  a  lottery — a 
poor  man,  whose  whole  earnings  go  in  to 
secure  the  ticket, — without  trembling,  hes- 
itating, and  doubting  ? 

Can  a  man  stake  his  bachelor  respecta- 
bility, his  independence,  and  comfort,  upon 
the  die  of  absorbing,  unchanging,  relentless 
marriage,  without  trembling  at  the  venture? 

Shall  a  man  who  has  been  free  to  chase 
his  fancies  over  the  wide-world,  without 
lett  or  hindrance,  shut  himself  up  to  mar- 
riage-ship, within  four  walls  called  Home, 
that  are  to  claim  him,  his  time,  his  trouble, 
and  his  tears,  thenceforward  forever  more, 
without  doubts  thick,  and  thick-coming  as 
Smoke? 

(19) 


*>  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

Shall  he  who  has  been  hitherto  a  mere 
observer  of  other  men's  cares  and  business 
—moving  off  where  they  made  him  sick  of 
heart,  approaching  whenever  and  wherever 
they  made  him  gleeful — shall  he  now  under- 
take administration  of  just  such  cares  and 
business,  without  qualms  ?  Shall  he,  whose 
whole  life  has  been  but  a  nimble  succession  of 
escapes  from  trifling  difficulties,  now  broach 
without  doublings — that  Matrimony,  where 
if  difficulty  beset  him,  there  is  no  escape  ? 
Shall  this  brain  of  mine,  careless-working, 
never  tired  with  idleness,  feeding  on  long 
vagaries,  and  high,  gigantic  castles,  dream- 
ing out  beatitudes  hour  by  hour — turn  itself 
at  length  to  such  dull  task-work,  as  think- 
ing out  a  livelihood  for  wife  and  children  ? 

Where  thenceforward  will  be  those  sunny 
dreams,  in  which  I  have  warmed  my  fancies, 
and  my  heart,  and  lighted  my  eye  with 
crystal  ?  This  very  marriage,  which  a  bril- 
liant working  imagination  has  invested  time 
and  again  with  brightness,  and  delight,  can 
serve  no  longer  as  a  mine  for  teeming 
fancy :  all,  alas,  will  be  gone— reduced  to 
the  dull  standard  of  the  actual !  No  more 
room  for  intrepid  forays  of  imagination- 
no  more  gorgeous  realm-making—all  will 
be  over ! 

Why  not,  I  thought,  go  on  dreaming  ? 

Can  any  wife  be  prettier  than  an  after 


SMOKE-SIGNIFYING  DOUBT.  21 

dinner  fancy,  idle  and  yet  vivid,  can  paint 
for  you  ?  Can  any  children  make  less 
noise,  than  the  little  rosy-cheeked  ones, 
who  have  no  existence,  except  in  the  om- 
nium gatherum  of  your  own  brain  ?  Can 
any  housewife  be  more  unexceptionable 
than  she  who  goes  sweeping  daintily  the 
cobwebs  that  gather  in  your  dreams  ?  Can 
any  domestic  larder  be  better  stocked,  than 
the  private  larder  of  your  head  dozing  on 
a  cushioned  chair-back  at  Delmonico's  ? 
Can  any  family  purse  be  better  filled  than 
the  exceeding  plump  one,  you  dream  of, 
after  reading  such  pleasant  books  as  Mun- 
chausen,  or  Typee  ? 

But  if,  after  all,  it  must  be — duty,  or 
what-not,  making  provocation — what  then? 
And  I  clapped  my  feet  hard  against  the 
fire-dogs,  and  leaned  back,  and  turned  my 
face  to  the  ceiling,  as  much  as  to  say ; — And 
where  on  earth,  then,  shall  a  poor  devil 
look  for  a  wife  ? 

Somebody  says,  Lyttleton  or  Shaftesbury 
I  think,  that  "  marriages  would  be  happier 
if  they  were  all  arranged  by  the  Lord 
Chancellor."  Unfortunately,  we  have  no 
Lord  Chancellor  to  make  this  commutation 
of  our  misery. 

Shall  a  man  then  scour  the  country  on  a 
mule's  back,  like  Honest  Gil  Bias  or  San- 
tillane  ;  or  shall  he  make  application  to  sora* 


a  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

such  intervening  providence  as  Madame  St 
Marc,  who,  as  I  see  by  the  Presse,  manages 
these  matters  to  one's  hand,  for  some  five 
per  cent,  on  the  fortunes  of  the  parties  ? 

I  have  trouted,  when  the  brook  was  so 
low,  and  the  sky  so  hot,  that  I  might  as 
well  have  thrown  my  fly  upon  the  turn- 
pike; and  I  have  hunted  hare  at  noon,  and 
wood-cock  in  snow-time — never  despairing, 
scarce  doubting ;  but  for  a  poor  hunter  of 
his  kind,  without  traps  or  snares,  or  any 
aid  of  police  or  constabulary,  to  traverse 
the  world,  where  are  swarming,  on  a  mod- 
erate computation,  some  three  hundred  and 
Qdd  millions  of  unmarried  women,  for  a 
single  capture — irremediable,  unchangeable 
— and  yet  a  capture  which  by  strange  me- 
tonymy, not  laid  down  in  the  books,  is  very 
apt  to  turn  captor  into  captive,  and  make 
game  of  hunter — all  this,  surely,  surely 
may  make  a  man  shrug  with  doubt ! 

Then — again, — there  are  the  plaguey 
wife's-relations.  Who  knows  how  many 
third,  fourth,  or  fifth  cousins  will  appear  at 
careless  complimentary  intervals  long  after 
you  had  settled  into  the  placid  belief  that 
all  congratulatory  visits  were  at  an  end  ? 
How  many  twisted  headed  brothers  will  be 
putting  in  their  advice,  as  a  friend  to 
Peggy? 

How  many   maiden  aunts  will  come  to 


SMOKE-SIGNIFYING  DOUBT.  23 

spend  a  month  or  two  with  their  "dear  Peg- 
gy," and  want  to  know  every  tea-time,  "if 
she  isn't  a  dear  love  of  a  wife  ?"  Then,  dear 
father-in-law  will  beg,  (taking  dear  Peggy's 
hand  in  his,)  to  give  a  little  wholesome 
counsel ;  and  will  be  very  sure  to  advise 
just  the  contrary  of  what  you  had  determin- 
ed to  undertake.  And  dear  mamma-in-law 
must  set  her  nose  into  Peggy's  cupboard, 
and  insist  upon  having  the  key  to  your  own 
private  locker  in  the  wainscot. 

Then,  perhaps,  there  is  a  little  bevy  of 
dirty-nosed  nephews  who  come  to  spend 
the  holydays,  and  eat  up  your  East  India 
sweetmeats  ;  and  who  are  forever  tramping 
over  your  head  or  raising  the  old  Harry 
below,  while  you  are  busy  with  your  clients. 
Last,  and  worst,  is  some  fidgety  old  uncle, 
forever  too  cold  or  too  hot,  who  vexes  you 
with  his  patronizing  airs,  and  impudently 
kisses  his  little  Peggy  ! 

That  could  be  borne,  however :  for 

perhaps  he  has  promised  his  fortune  to  Peg- 
gy. Peggy,  then,  will  be  rich : — (and  the 
thought  made  me  rub  my  shins,  which  were 
now  getting  comfortably  warm  upon  the  fire- 
dogs.)  Then,  she  will  be  forever  talking 
of  her  fortune ;  and  pleasantly  reminding 
you  on  occasion  of  a  favorite  purchase, — 
how  lucky  that  she  had  the  means;  and 
dropping  hints  about  economy :  and  buying 
very  extravagant  Paisleys. 


M  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR, 

She  will  annoy  you  by  looking  over  the 
stock-list  at  breakfast  time;  and  mention 
quite  carelessly  to  your  clients,  that  she  is 
interested  in  such,  or  such  a  speculation. 

She  will  be  provokingly  silent  when  you 
hint  to  a  tradesman,  that  you  have  not  the 
money  by  you,  for  his  small  bill  ; — in  short, 
she  will  tear  the  life  out  of  you,  making 
you  pay  in  righteous  retribution  of  annoy- 
ance, grief,  vexation,  shame,  and  sickness 
of  heart,  for  the  superlative  folly  of  "marry- 
ing rich." 

But  if  not  rich,  then  poor.    Bah  !  the 

thought  made  me  stir  the  coals ;  but  there 
was  still  no  blaze.  The  paltry  earnings 
you  are  able  to  wring  out  of  clients  by  the 
sweat  of  your  brow,  will  now  be  all  our  in- 
come ;  you  will  be  pestered  for  pin-money, 
and  pestered  with  your  poor  wife's  rela- 
tions. Ten  to  one,  she  will  stickle  about 
taste—"  Sir  Visto's"— and  want  to  make 
this  so  pretty,  and  that  so  charming,  if  she 
only  had  the  means  ;  and  is  sure  Paul  (a 
kiss)  can't  deny  his  little  Peggy  such  a 
trifling  sum,  and  all  for  the  common  benefit. 

Then  she,  for  one,  means  that  her  chil- 
dren shan't  go  a-begging  for  clothes,— and 
another  pull  at  the  purse.  Trust  a  poor 
mother  to  dress  her  children  in  finery  ! 

Perhaps  she  is  ugly  ; — not  noticeable  at 
first  ;  but  growing  on  her,  and  (what  is 


SMOKE— SIGNIFYING  DOUBT.  25 

worse)  growing  faster  on  you.  You  won- 
der why  you  didn't  see  that  vulgar  nose 
long  ago  :  and  that  lip — it  is  very  strange, 
you  think,  that  you  ever  thought  it  pretty. 
And  then, — to  come  to  breakfast,  with  her 
hair  looking  as  it  does,  and  you,  not  so 
much  as  daring  to  say — "  Peggy,  do  brush 
your  hair !"  Her  foot  too — not  very  bad 
when  decently  chaussfo — but  now  since 
she's  married  she  does  wear  such  infernal 
slippers  !  And  yet  for  all  this,  to  be  prig- 
ging up  for  an  hour,  when  any  of  my  old 
chums  come  to  dine  with  me  ! 

"  Bless  your  kind  hearts !  my  dear  fel- 
lows," said  I,  thrusting  the  tongs  into  the 
coals,  and  speaking  out  loud,  as  if  my  voice 
could  reach  from  Virginia  to  Paris — "  not 
married  yet !" 

Perhaps  Peggy  is  pretty  enough — only 
shrewish. 

No  matter  for  cold  coffee ;  — you 

should  have  been  up  before. 

What  sad,  thin,  poorly  cooked  chops,  to 
eat  with  your  rolls  ! 

She  thinks  they  are  very  good,  and 

wonders  how  you  can  set  such  an  example 
to  your  children. 

The  butter  is  nauseating. 

She  has  no  other,  and  hopes  you'll  not 

raise  a  storm  about  butter  a  little  turned. — 
I  think  I  see  myself — ruminated  I — sitting 
3 


26  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

meekly  at  table,  scarce  daring  to  lift  up  my 
eyes,  utterly  fagged  out  with  some  quarrel 
of  yesterday,  choking  down  detestably  sour 
muffins,  that  my  wife  thinks  are  "delicious" 
— slipping  in  dried  mouthfuls  of  burnt  ham 
off  the  side  of  my  fork  tines, — slipping  off 
my  chair  side-ways  at  the  end,  and  slipping 
out  with  my  hat  between  my  knees,  to  busi- 
ness, and  never  feeling  myself  a  compe- 
tent, sound-minded  man,  till  the  oak  door 
is  between  me  and  Peggy  ! 

— "  Ha,  ha, — not  yet ! "  said  I ;  and  in  so 
earnest  a  tone,  that  my  dog  started  to  his 
feet — cocked  his  eye  to  have  a  good  look 
into  my  face — met  my  smile  of  triumph 
with  an  amiable  wag  of  the  tail,  and  curled 
up  again  in  the  corner. 

Again,  Peggy  is  rich  enough,  well  enough, 
mild  enough,  only  she  doesn't  care  a  fig  for 
you.  She  has  married  you  because  father, 
or  grandfather  thought  the  match  eligible, 
and  because  she  didn't  wish  to  disoblige 
them.  Besides,  she  didn't  positively  hate 
you,  and  thought  you  were  a  respectable 
enough  young  person ;— she  has  told  you  so 
repeatedly  at  dinner.  She  wonders  you 
like, to  read  poetry ;  she  wishes  you  would 
buy  her  a  good  cook-book ;  and  insists  upon 
your  making  your  will  at  the  birth  of  the 
first  baby. 

She  thinks  Captain  So-and-So  a  splendid 


SMOKE- SIGNIFYING  DOUBT,  yj 

looking  fellow,  and  wishes  you  *  ,ould  trim 
up  a  little,  were  it  only  for  appearance' 
sake. 

You  need  not  hurry  up  from  the  office  s<? 
early  at  night : — she,  bless  her  dear  heart ! — 
does  not  feel  lonely.  You  read  to  her  3 
love  tale ;  she  interrupts  the  pathetic  parts 
with  directions  to  her  seamstress.  You 
read  of  marriages:  she  sighs,  and  asks  if 
Captain  So-and-So  has  left  town !  She  hates 
to  be  mewed  up  in  a  cottage,  or  between 
brick  walls ;  she  does  so  love  the  Springs ! 

But,  again,  Peggy  loves  you ; — at  least 
she  swears  it,  with  her  hand  on  the  Sor- 
rows of  Werter.  She  has  pin-money  which 
she  spends  for  the  Literary  World  and  the 
Friends  in  Council.  She  is  not  bad  look- 
ing, save  a  bit  too  much  of  forehead ;  nor  is 
she  sluttish,  unless  a  neglige  till  three 
o'clock,  and  an  ink  stain  on  the  forefinger 
be  sluttish; — but  then  she  is  such  a  sad 
blue! 

You  never  fancied  when  you  saw  her 
buried  in  a  three  volume  novel,  that  it  was 
anything  more  than  a  girlish  vagary ;  and 
when  she  quoted  Latin,  you  thought  inno- 
cently, that  she  had  a  capital  memory  for 
her  samplers. 

But  to  be  bored  eternally  about  Divine 
Dante  and  funny  Goldoni,  is  too  bad 
Your  copy  of  Tasso,  a  treasure  print  of 


18  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

1680,  is  all  bethumbed  and  dogs-eared, 
and  spotted  with  baby  gruel.  Even  your 
Seneca — an  Elzevir — is  all  sweaty  with 
handling.  She  adores  La  Fontaine,  reads 
Balzac  with  a  kind  of  artist-scowl,  and  will 
not  let  Greek  alone. 

You  hint  at  broken  rest  and  an  aching 
i  head  at  breakfast,  and  she  will  fling  you  a 
scrap  of  Anthology— in  lieu  of  the  cam- 
phor  bottle — or  chant  the  ajar  alat,  of  tragic 
chorus. 

The  nurse  is   getting  dinner;  you 

are  holding  the  baby;  Peggy  is  reading- 
Bruyere. 

The  fire  smoked  thick  as  pitch,  and 
puffed  out  little  clouds  over  the  chimney 
piece.  I  gave  the  fore-stick  a  kick,  at  the 
thought  of  Peggy,  baby  and  Bruyere. 

Suddenly  the  flame  flickered  bluely 

athwart  the  smoke — caught  at  a  twig  be- 
low— rolled  round  the  mossy  oak-stick— 
cwined  among  the  crackling  tree-limbs— 
mounted— lit  up  the  whole  body  of  smoke, 
ind  blazed  out  cheerily  and  bright.  Doubt 
yanished  with  Smoke,  and  Hope  began 

mfn    T71o*v^^  ^ 


Flame. 


II. 

BLAZE— SIGNIFYING  CHEER. 

I  PUSHED  my  chair  back;  drew  up 
another ;  stretched  out  my  feet  cosily 
upon  it,  rested  my  elbows  on  the  chair 
arms,  leaned  my  head  on  one  hand,  and 
looked  straight  into  the  leaping,  and  danc- 
ing flame. 

Love  is  a  flame — ruminated  I ;  and 

(glancing  round  the  room)  how  a  flame 
brightens  up  a  man's  habitation. 

"  Carlo,"  said  I,  calling  up  my  dog  into 
the  light,  "good  fellow,  Carlo!"  and  I 
patted  him  kindly,  and  he  wagged  his  tail, 
and  laid  his  nose  across  my  knee,  and  looked 
wistfully  up  in  my  face  ;  then  strode  away, 
— turned  to  look  again,  and  lay  down  to 
sleep. 

"Pho,  the  brute!"  said  I,  "it  is  not 
enough  after  all,  to  like  a  dog." 

If  now  in  that  chair  yonder,  not  the 

one  your  feet  lie  upon,  but  the  other,  beside 
you — closer  yet — were  seated  a  sweet-faced 


|p  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

girl,  with  a  pretty  little  foot  tying  out  upon 
the  hearth — a  bit  of  lace  running  round  the 
swelling  throat — the  hair  parted  to  a  charm 
over  a  forehead  fair  as  any  of  your  dreams; 
— and  if  you  could  reach  an  arm  around 
that  chair  back,  without  fear  of  giving 
offence,  and  suffer  your  fingers  to  play  idly 
with  those  curls  that  escape  down  the  neck ; 
and  if  you  could  clasp  with  your  other 
hand  those  little  white,  taper  fingers  of 
hers,  which  lie  so  temptingly  within  reach, 
— and  so,  talk  softly  and  low  in  presence 
of  the  blaze,  while  the  hours  slip  without 
knowledge,  and  the  winter  winds  whistle 
uncared  for;— if,  in  short,  you  were  no 
bachelor,  but  the  husband  of  some  such 
sweet  image— (dream,  call  it  rather,)  would 
it  not  be  far  pleasanter  than  this  cold 
single  night-sitting—counting  the  sticks- 
reckoning  the  length  of  the  blaze,  and  the 
height  of  the  falling  snow  ? 

And  if,  some  or  all  of  those  wild  vagaries 
that  grow  on  your  fancy  at  such  an  hour, 
you  could  whisper  into  listening,  because 
loving  ears— ears  not  tired  with  listening, 
because  it  is  you  who  whisper— ears  ever 
indulgent  because  eager  to  praise ;— and  if 
your  darkest  fancies  were  lit  up,  not  mere- 
ly with  bright  wood  fire,  but  with  a  ring- 
ing laugh  of  that  sweet  face  turned  up  in 
fond  rebuke— how  far  better,  than  to  be 


BLAZE-SIGNIFYING  CHEER.  31 

waxing  black,  and  sour,  over  pestilential 
humors — alone — your  very  dog  asleep! 

And  if  when  a  glowing  thought  comes 
into  your  brain,  quick  and  sudden,  you 
could  tell  it  over  as  to  a  second  self,  to 
that  sweet  creature,  who  is  not  away,  be- 
cause she  loves  to  be  there;  and  if  you 
could  watch  the  thought  catching  that 
girlish  mind,  illuming  that  fair  brow,  spark- 
ling in  those  pleasantest  of  eyes — how  far 
better  than  to  feel  it  slumbering,  and 
going  out,  heavy,  lifeless,  and  dead,  in 
your  own  selfish  fancy.  And  if  a  generous 
emotion  steals  over  you — coming,  you 
know  not  whither,  would  there  not  be  a 
richer  charm  in  lavishing  it  in  caress,  or 
endearing  word,  upon  that  fondest,  and 
most  dear  one,  than  in  patting  your  glossy 
coated  dog,  or  sinking  lonely  to  smiling 
slumbers  ? 

How  would  not  benevolence  ripen  with 
such  monitor  to  task  it !  How  would  not 
selfishness  grow  faint  and  dull,  leaning 
ever  to  that  second  self,  which  is  the  loved 
one!  How  would  not  guile  shiver,  and 
grow  weak,  before  that  girl-brow,  and  eye 
of  innocence!  How  would  not  all  that 
boyhood  prized  of  enthusiasm,  and  quick 
blood,  and  life,  renew  itself  in  such  pres- 
ence! 

The  fire  was  getting  hotter,  and  I  moved 


32  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

into  the  middle  of  the  room.  The  shadows 
the  flames  made,  were  playing  like  fairy 
forms  over  floor,  and  wall,  and  ceiling. 

My  fancy  would  surely  quicken,  thought 
I,  if  such  being  were  in  attendance.  Sure- 
ly imagination  would  be  stronger,  and 
purer,  if  it  could  have  the  playful  fancies 
of  dawning  womanhood  to  delight  it.  All 
toil  would  be  torn  from  mind-labor,  if  but 
another  heart  grew  into  this  present  soul, 
quickening  it,  warming  it,  cheering  it,  bid- 
ding it  ever, — God  speed! 

Her  face  would  make  a  halo,  rich  as  a 
rainbow,  atop  of  all  such  noisome  things, 
as  we  lonely  souls  call  trouble.  Her 
smile  would  illumine  the  blackest  of  crowd- 
ing cares;  and  darkness  that  now  seats  you 
despondent,  in  your  solitary  chair  for  days 
together,  weaving  bitter  fancies,  dreaming 
bitter  dreams,  would  grow  light  and  thin, 
and  spread,  and  float  away, — chased  by 
that  beloved  smile. 

Your  friend — poor  fellow ! — dies : — never 
mind,  that  gentle  clasp  of  her  fingers,  as 
she  steals  behind  you,  telling  you  not  to 
weep — it  is  worth  ten  friends ! 

Your  sister,  sweet  one,  is  dead— buried. 
The  worms  are  busy  with  all  her  fairness. 
How  it  makes  you  think  earth  nothing  but 
a  spot  to  dig  graves  upon ! 

It  is  more  :  s/ie,  she  says,  will  be  a 


BLAZE— SIGNIFYING  CHEER.  33 

sister ;  and  the  waving  curls  as  she  leans 
upon  your  shoulder,  touch  your  cheek,  and 
your  wet  eye  turns  to  meet  those  other 
eyes God  has  sent  his  angel,  surely ! 

Your  mother,  alas  for  it,  she  is  gone  \ 
Is  there  any  bitterness  to  a  youth,  alone, 
and  homeless,  like  this  ! 

But  you  are  not  homeless ;  you  are  not 
alone :  she  is  there  ; — her  tears  softening 
yours,  her  smile  lighting  yours,  her  grief 
killing  yours ;  and  you  live  again,  to  as- 
suage that  kind  sorrow  of  hers. 

Then — those  children,  rosy,  fair-haired ; 
no,  they  do  not  disturb  you  with  their 
prattle  now — they  are  yours !  Toss  away 
there  on  the  green-sward — never  mind  the 
hyacinths,  the  snowdrops,  the  violets,  if  so 
be  any  are  there ;  the  perfume  of  their 
healthful  lips  is  worth  all  the  flowers  of  the 
world.  No  need  now  to  gather  wild  bou- 
quets to  love,  and  cherish  :  flower,  tree, 
gun,  are  all  dead  things;  things  livelier 
hold  your  soul. 

And  she,  the  mother,  sweetest  and  fair- 
est of  all,  watching,  tending,  caressing, 
loving,  till  your  own  heart  grows  pained 
with  tenderest  jealousy,  and  cures  itself 
with  loving. 

You  have  no  need  now  of  any  cold  lec- 
ture to  teach  thankfulness  :  your  heart  is 
full  of  it.  No  need  now,  as  once,  of  burst* 


34  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

ing  blossoms,  of  trees  taking  leaf,  a$*» 
greenness,  to  turn  thought  kindly,  and 
thankfully ;  for  ever,  beside  you,  there  is 
bloom,  and  ever  beside  you  there  is  fruit, 
— for  which  eye,  heart,  and  soul  are  full 
of  unknown,  and  unspoken,  because  un- 
speakable, thank-offering. 

And  if  sickness  catches  you,  binds  you, 
lays  you  down — no  lonely  meanings,  and 
wicked  curses  at  careless  stepping  nurses. 
The  step  is  noiseless,  and  yet  distinct  be- 
side you.  The  white  curtains  are  drawn, 
or  withdrawn  by  the  magic  of  that  other 
presence ;  and  the  soft,  cool  hand  is  upon 
your  brow. 

No  cold  comfortings  of  friend-watchers, 
merely  come  in  to  steal  a  word  away  from 
that  outer  world  which  is  pulling  at  their 
skirts ;  but,  ever,  the  sad,  shaded  brow  of 
her,  whose  lightest  sorrow  for  your  sake  is 
your  greatest  grief, — if  it  were  not  a  great- 
er joy. 

The  blaze  was  leaping  light  and  high, 
and  the  wood  falling  under  the  growing 
heat. 

So,  continued  I,  this  heart  would 

be  at  length  itself ; — striving  with  every- 
thing gross,  even  now  as  it  clings  to  gross- 
ness.  Love  would  make  its  strength  native 
and  progressive.  Earth's  cares  would  fly. 
Joys  would  double.  Susceptibilities  be 


BLAZE-SIGNIFYING  CHEER.  35 

quickened  ;  Love  master  self  ;  and  having 
made  the  mastery,  stretch  onward,  and  up- 
ward toward  Infinitude. 

And  if  the  end  came,  and  sickness 
brought  that  follower — Great  Follower— 
which  sooner  or  later  is  sure  to  come  after, 
then  the  heart,  and  the  hand  of  Love,  ever 
near,  are  giving  to  your  tired  soul,  daily 
and  hourly,  lessons  of  that  love  which  con- 
soles, which  triumphs,  which  circleth  all, 
and  centereth  in  all — Love  Infinite  and 
Divine ! 

Kind  hands — none  but  hers — will  smooth 
the  hair  upon  your  brow  as  the  chill  grows 
damp,  and  heavy  on  it ;  and  her  fingers — 
none  but  hers — will  lie  in  yours  as  the 
wasted  flesh  stiffens,  and  hardens  for  the 
ground.  Her  tears, — you  could  feel  no 
others,  if  oceans  fell — will  warm  your 
drooping  features  once  more  to  life  ;  once 
more  your  eye  lighted  in  joyous  triumph, 
kindle  in  her  smile,  and  then 

The  fire  fell  upon  the  hearth  ;  the  blaze 
gave  a  last  leap — a  flicker — then  another 
— caught  a  little  remaining  twig — blazed  up 
— wavered — went  out. 

There  was  nothing  but  a  bed  of  glowing 
embers,  over  which  the  white  ashes  gath- 
ered fast.  I  was  alone,  with  only  my  dog 
for  company. 


III. 

ASHES— SIGNIFYING  DESOLATION. 

AFTER   all,  thought  I,  ashes    follow 
blaze,   inevitably  as   Death  follows 
Life.     Misery  treads  on  the  heels  of 
Joy  ;  Anguish  rides  swift  after  Pleasure. 

"  Come  to  me  again,  Carlo,"  said  I,  to 
my  dog;  and  I  patted  him  fondly  once 
more,  but  now  only  by  the  light  of  the 
dying  embers. 

It  is  very  little  pleasure  one  takes  in 
fondling  brute  favorites ;  but  it  is  a  pleas- 
ure that  when  it  passes,  leaves  no  void.  It 
is  only  a  little  alleviating  redundance  in 
your  solitary  heart-life,  which  if  lost,  an~ 
other  can  be  supplied. 

But  if  your  heart,  not  solitary— not 
quieting  its  humors  with  mere  love  of  chase, 
or  dog— not  repressing  year  after  year,  its 
earnest  yearnings  after  something  better, 
and  more  spiritual,— has  fairly  linked  itself 
by  bonds  strong  as  life,  to  another  heart- 
is  the  casting  off  easy,  then  ? 
(36) 


ASHES-SIGNIFYING  DESOLATION.      37 

Is  it  then  only  a  little  heart-redundancy 
cut  off,  which  the  next  bright  sunset  will 
fill  up  ? 

And  my  fancy,  as  it  had  painted  doubt 
under  the  smoke,  and  cheer  under  warmth 
of  the  blaze,  so  now  it  began  under  the 
faint  light  of  the  smouldering  embers,  to 
picture  heart-desolation 

What  kind  congratulatory  letters,  hosts 
of  them,  coming  from  old  and  half-forgot- 
ten friends,  now  that  your  happiness  is  a 
year,  or  two  years  old ! 

"Beautiful." 
Aye  to  be  sure,  beautiful ! 

"Rich." 

Pho,  the  dawdler!  how  little  he  knows 

of  *heart-treasure,  who  speaks  of  wealth  to 
a  man  who  loves  his  wife,  as  a  wife  only 
should  be  loved ! 

"  Young." 

Young  indeed  ;  guileless  as  infancy ; 

charming  as  the  morning. 

Ah,  these  letters  bear  a  sting :  they  bring 
to  mind,  with  new  and  newer  freshness/  if 
it  be  possible,  the  value  of  that,  which  you 
tremble  lest  you  lose. 

How  anxiously  you  watch  that  step — if 
it  lose  not  its  buoyancy ;  How  you  study 
the  color  on  that  cheek,  if  it  grow  not 
fainter ;  How  you  tremble  at  the  lustre  in 
those  eyes,  if  it  be  not  the  lustre  of  Death ; 


j8  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

How  you  totter  under  the  weight  of  that 
muslin  sleeve — a  phantom  weight!  How 
you  fear  to  do  it,  and  yet  press  forward,  to 
note  if  that  breathing  be  quickened,  as  you 
ascend  the  home-heights,  to  look  off  on 
sunset  lighting  the  plain. 

Is  your  sleep,  quiet  sleep,  after  that  she 
has  whispered  to  you  her  fears,  and  in  the 
same  breath — soft  as  a  sigh,  sharp  as  an 
arrow — bid  you  bear  it  bravely  ? 

Perhaps, — the  embers  were  now  glowing 
fresher,  a  little  kindling,  before  the  ashes 
— she  triumphs  over  disease. 

But,  Poverty,  the  world's  almoner,  has 
come  to  you  with  ready,  spare  hand. 

Alone,  with  your  dog  living  on  bones, 
and  you,  on  hope — kindling  each  morning, 
dying  slowly  each  night, — this  could  be 
borne.  Philosophy  would  bring  home  its 
stores  to  the  lone-man.  Money  is  not  in 
his  hand,  but  Knowledge  is  in  his  brain ! 
and  from  that  brain  he  draws  out  faster,  as 
he  draws  slower  from  his  pocket.  He  re- 
members :  and  on  remembrance  he  can 
live  for  days,  and  weeks.  The  garret,  if  a  gar- 
ret covers  him,  is  rich  in  fancies.  The  rain 
if  it  pelts,  pelts  only  him  used  to  rain-pelt- 
ings.  And  his  dog  crouches  not  in  dread, 
but  in  companionship.  His  crust  he  di- 
vides with  him,  and  laughs.  He  crowns 
himself  with  glorious  memories  of  Cer- 


ASHES-SIGNIFYING  DESOLATION.     39 

vantes,  though  he  begs :  if  he  nights  it 
under  the  stars,  he  dreams  heaven-sent 
dreams  of  the  prisoned,  and  homeless 
Galileo. 

He  hums  old  sonnets,  and  snatches  of 
poor  Jonson's  plays.  He  chants  Dryden's 
odes,  and  dwells  on  Otway's  rhyme.  He 
reasons  with  Bolingbroke  or  Diogenes,  as 
the  humor  takes  him ;  and  laughs  at  the 
world:  for  the  world,  thank  Heaven,  has 
left  him  alone ! 

Keep  your  money,  old  misers,  and  your 
palaces,  old  princes, — the  world  is  mine! 

I  care  not,  Fortune,  what  you  me  deny. — 
You  cannot  rob  me  of  free  nature's  grace, 

You  cannot  shut  the  windows  of  the  sky; 
You  cannot  bar  my  constant  feet  to  trace 

The  woods  and  lawns,  by  living  streams,  at  eve, 
Let  health,  my  nerves  and  finer  fibres  brace, 

And  I,  their  toys,  to  the  great  children,  leave, 

Of  Fancy,  Reason,  Virtue,  naught  can  we  bereave! 

But — if  not  alone  ? 

If  she  is  clinging  to  you  for  support,  for 
consolation,  for  home,  for  life — she,  reared 
in  luxury  perhaps,  is  faint  for  bread  ? 

Then,  the  iron  enters  the  soul ;  then  the 
nights  darken  under  any  sky  light.  Then 
the  days  grow  long,  even  in  the  solstice  of 
winter. 

She  may  not  complain ;  what  then  ? 

Will  your  heart    grow    strong,  if    the 


40  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

strength  of  her  love  can  dam  up  the  foun- 
tains of  tears,  and  the  tied  tongue  not  tell 
of  bereavement?  Will  it  solace  you  to 
find  her  parting  the  poor  treasure  of  food 
you  have  stolen  for  her,  with  begging,  food- 
less  children? 

But  this  ill,  strong  hands,  and  Heaven's 
help,  will  put  down.  Wealth  again;  Flowers 
again ;  Patrimonial  acres  again ;  Brightness 
again.  But  your  little  Bessy,  your  favorite 
child  is  pining. 

Would  to  God !  you  say  in  agony,  that 
wealth  could  bring  fulness  again  into  that 
blanched  cheek,  or  round  those  little  thin 
lips  once  more;  but  it  cannot.  Thinner 
and  thinner  they  grow;  plaintive  and  more 
plaintive  her  sweet  voice. 

"Dear  Bessy  "—and  your  tones  tremble; 
you  feel  that  she  is  on  the  edge  of  the 
grave?  Can  you  pluck  her  back?  Can 
endearments  stay  her?  Business  is  heavy, 
away  from  the  loved  child ;  home,  you  go, 
to  fondle  while  yet  time  is  left— but  this 
time  you  are  too  late.  She  is  gone.  She 
cannot  hear  you:  she  cannot  thank  you 
for  the  violets  you  put  within  her  stiff 
white  hand. 

And  then — the  grassy  mound — the  cold 
shadow  of  head-stone ! 

The  wind,  growing  with  the  night,  is 
rattling  at  the  window  panes,  and  whistles 


ASHES— SIGNIFYING  DESOLATION.      41 

dismally.  I  wipe  a  tear,  and  in  the  interval 
of  my  Reverie,  thank  God,  that  I  am  no 
such  mourner. 

But  gaiety,  snail-footed,  creeps  back  to 
the  household.  All  is  bright  again  ; — 

The  violet  bed  's  not  sweeter 
Than  the  delicious  breath  marriage  sends  forth. 

Her  lip  is  rich  and  full ;  her  cheek  deli- 
cate as  a  flower.  Her  frailty  doubles  your 
love. 

And  the  little  one  she  clasps — frail  too — 
too  frail :  the  boy  you  had  set  your  hopes 
and  heart  on.  You  have  watched  him  grow- 
ing, ever  prettier,  ever  winning  more  and 
more  upon  your  soul.  The  love  you  bore 
to  him  when  he  first  lisped  names — your 
name  and  hers — has  doubled  in  strength 
now  that  he  asks  innocently  to  be  taught 
of  this,  or  that,  and  promises  you  by  that 
quick  curiosity  that  flashes  in  his  eye,  a 
mind  full  of  intelligence. 

And  some  hair-breadth  escape  by  sea,  or 
flood,  that  he  perhaps  may  have  had — 
which  unstrung  your  soul  to  such  tears,  as 
you  pray  God  may  be  spared  you  again— 
has  endeared  the  little  fellow  to  your  heart, 
a  thousandfold. 

And,  now  with  his  pale  sister  in  the 
grave,  all  that  love  has  come  away  from  the 
mound,  where  worms  feast,  and  centres  on 
the  boy. 

4 


4*  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

How  you  watch  the  storms  lest  they 
harm  him !  How  often  you  steal  to  his 
bed  late  at  night,  and  lay  your  hand  lightly 
upon  the  brow,  where  the  curls  cluster 
thick,  rising  and  falling  with  the  throbbing 
temples,  and  watch,  for  minutes  together, 
the  little  lips  half  parted,  and  listen — your 
ear  close  to  them — if  the  breathing  be 
regular  and  sweet ! 

But  the  day  comes — the  night  rather — 
when  you  can  catch  no  breathing. 

Aye,  put  your  hair  away, — compose  your- 
self— listen  again. 

No,  there  is  nothing ! 

Put  your  hand  now  to  his  brow — damp  in- 
deed— but  not  with  healthful  night-sleep; 
it  is  not  your  hand,  no,  do  not  deceive  your- 
self— it  is  your  loved  boy's  forehead  that 
is  so  cold ;  and  your  loved  boy  will  never 
speak  to  you  again — never  play  again—' 
he  is  dead ! 

O,  the  tears — the  tears;  what  blessed 
things  are  tears  !  Never  fear  now  to  let 
them  fall  on  his  forehead,  or  his  lip,  lest 

Ci  waken   him  .'—Clasp  him— clasp   him 
der — you  cannot  hurt,  you  cannot  waken 
him !     Lay  him  down,  gently  or  not,  it  is 
the  same;  he  is  stiff;  he  is  stark  and  cold. 
But  courage  is  elastic ;  it  is  our  pride. 
It  recovers  itself  easier,  thought  I,  than 
these  tmbers  will  get  into  blaze  again. 


ASHES— SIGNIFYING  DESOLATION.      43 

But  courage,  and  patience,  and  faith, 
and  hope  have  their  limit.  Blessed  be  the 
man  who  escapes  such  trial  as  will  deter- 
mine limit ! 

To  a  lone  man  it  comes  not  near ;  for 
how  can  trial  take  hold  where  there  is 
nothing  by  which  to  try  ? 

A  funeral  ?  You  reason  with  philosophy, 
A  graveyard  ?  You  read  Hervey  and  muse 
upon  the  wall.  A  friend  dies  ?  You  sigh, 
vou  pat  your  dog, — it  is  over.  Losses? 
You  retrench — you  light  your  pipe — it  is 
forgotten.  Calumny  ?  You  laugh — you 
sleep. 

But  with  that  childless  wife  clinging  to 
you  in  love  and  sorrow — what  then  ? 

Can  you  take  down  Seneca  now,  and 
coolly  blow  the  dust  from  the  leaf-tops  ? 
Can  you  crimp  your  lip  with  Voltaire  ? 
Can  you  smoke  idly,  your  feet  dangling 
with  the  ivies,  your  thoughts  all  waving 
fancies  upon  a  church-yard  wall — a  wall 
that  borders  the  grave  or  your  boy  ? 

Can  you  amuse  yourself  by  turning 
stinging  Martial  into  rhyme  ?  Can  you  pat 
your  dog,  and  seeing  him  wakeful  and  kind, 
say,  "  It  is  enough  ? "  Can  you  sneer  at  cal- 
umnyyand  sit  by  your  fire  dozing? 

Blessed,  thought  I  again,  is  the  man  who 
escapes  such  trial  as  will  measure  the  limit 
of  patience  and  the  limit  of  courage ! 


44  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

But  the  trial  comes :— colder  and  colder 
were  growing  the  embers. 

That  wife,  over  whom  your  love  broods, 
is  fading.  Not  beauty  fading ;— that,  now 
that  your  heart  is  wrapped  in  her  being, 
would  be  nothing. 

She  sees  with  quick  eye  your  dawning 
apprehension,  and  she  tries  hard  to  make 
that  step  of  hers  elastic. 

Your  trials  and  your  loves  together  have 
centered  your  affections.  They  are  not 
now  as  when  you  were  a  lone  man,  wide- 
spread and  superficial.  They  have  caught 
from  domestic  attachments  a  finer  tone 
and  touch.  They  cannot  shoot  out  tendrils 
into  barren  world-soil  and  suck  up  thence 
strengthening  nutriment.  They  have 
grown  under  the  forcing-glass  of  home- 
roof,  they  will  not  now  bear  exposure. 

You  do  not  now  look  men  in  the  face  as  if 
a  heart-bond  was  linking  you— as  if  a  com- 
munity of  feeling  lay  between.  There  is 
a  heart-bond  that  absorbs  all  others  ;  there 
is  a  community  that  monopolizes  your  feel- 
ing. When  the  heart  lay  wide  open,  be- 
fore it  had  grown  upon,  and  closed  around 
particular  objects,  it  could  take  strength 
and  cheer,  from  a  hundred  connections 
that  now  seem  colder  than  ice. 

And  now  those  particular  objects — alas 
for  you  ! — are  failing. 


ASHES— SIGNIFYING  DESOLATION,     « 

What  anxiety  pursues  you !  How  you 
struggle  to  fancy — there  is  no  danger ;  now 
she  struggles  to  persuade  you — there  is  no 
danger ! 

How  it  grates  now  on  your  ear — the  toil 
and  turmoil  of  the  city !  It  was  music 
when  you  were  alone ;  it  was  pleasant  even, 
when  from  the  din  you  were  elaborating 
comforts  for  the  cherished  objects  ;  — when 
you  had  such  sweet  escape  as  evening 
drew  on. 

Now  it  maddens  you  to  see  the  world 
careless  while  you  are  steeped  in  care. 
They  hustle  you  in  the  street ;  they  smile 
at  you  across  the  table;  they  bow  care- 
lessly over  the  way;  they  do  not  know 
what  canker  is  at  your  heart. 

The  undertaker  comes  wit'h  his  bill  for 
the  dead  boy's  funeral.  He  knows  your 
grief ;  he  is  respectful.  You  bless  him  in 
your  soul.  You  wish  the  laughing  street- 
goers  were  all  undertakers. 

Your  eye  follows  the  physician  as  he 
leaves  your  house  :  is  he  wise,  you  ask 

Smrself ;  is  he  prudent?  is  he  the  best? 
id  he  never  fail — is  he  never  forgetful  ? 
And  now  the  hand  that  touches  yours, 
is  it  no  thinner — no  whiter  than  yesterday? 
Sunny  days  come  when  she  revives  ;  color 
comes  back ;  she  breathes  freer ;  she  picks 
flowers  ;  she  meets  you  with  a  smile  :  hope 
lives  again. 


46  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

But  the  next  day  of  storm  she  is  fallen. 
She  cannot  talk  even;  she  presses  your 
hand. 

You  hurry  away  from  business  before 
your  time.  What  matter  for  clients—  who 
is  to  reap  the  rewards  ?  What  matter  for 
fame  —  whose  eye  will  it  brighten  ?  What 
matter  for  riches  —  whose  is  the  inheritance? 

You  find  her  propped  with  pillows  ;  she 
is  looking  over  a  little  picture-book  be- 
thumbed  by  the  dear  boy  she  has  lost. 
She  hides  it  in  her  chair  ;  she  has  pity  on 
you. 

-  Another  day  of   revival,   when  the 

ring  sun  shines,  and  flowers  open  out  of 
oors  ;  she  leans  on  your  arm,  and  strolls 
into  the  garden  where  the  first  birds  are 
singing.  Listen  to  them  with  her  ;  —  what 
memories  are  in  bird-songs!  You  need 
not  shudder  at  her  tears  —  they  are  tears  of 
Thanksgiving.  Press  the  hand  that  lies 
light  upon  your  arm,  and  you,  too,  thank 
God,  while  yet  you  may  ! 

You  are  early  home  —  mid-afternoon. 
Your  step  is  not  light  ;  it  is  heavy,  terrible. 

They  have  sent  for  you. 

She  is  lying  down  ;  her  eyes  half  closed  ; 
her  breathing  long  and  interrupted. 

She  hears  you  ;  her  eye  opens  ;  you  put 
your  hand  in  hers  ;  yours  trembles  ;  —  hers 
does  not.  Her  lips  move  ;  it  is  your  name. 


sp 
do 


ASHES— SIGNIFYING  DESOLATION.     47 

"  Be  strong,"  she  says,  "  God  will  help 

you ! " 

She  presses  harder  your  hand: — "Adieu!" 
A  long  breath — another ; — you  are  alone 

again.     No  tears  now ;   poor  man !     You 

cannot  find  them ! 

Again  home  early.  There  is  a  smell 

of  varnish  in  your  house.  A  coffin  is  there ; 
they  have  clothed  the  body  in  decent  grave 
clothes,  and  the  undertaker  is  screwing 
down  the  lid,  slipping  round  on  tip-toe. 
Does  he  fear  to  waken  her  ? 

He  asks  you  a  simple  question  about  the 
inscription  upon  the  plate,  rubbing  it  with 
his  coat  cuff.  You  look  him  straight  in 
the  eye  ;  you  motion  to  the  door ;  you  dare 
not  speak. 

He  takes  up  his  hat  and  glides  out 
stealthful  as  a  cat. 

The  man  has  done  his  work  well  for  all 
It  is  a  nice  coffin — a  very  nice  coffin  !  Pass 
your  hand  over  it — how  smooth ! 

Some  sprigs  of  mignionette  are  lying 
carelessly  in  a  little  gilt-edged  saucer. 
She  loved  mignionette. 

It  is  a  good  staunch  table  the  coffin  rests 
on ; — it  is  your  table ;  you  are  a  house- 
keeper— a  man  of  family  ! 

Aye,  of  family! — keep  down  outcry,  or 
the  nurse  will  be  in.  Look  over  at  the 


48  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

pinched  features ;  is  this  all  that  is  left  of 
ner  ?  And  where  is  your  heart  now  ?  No, 
don't  thrust  your  nails  into  your  hands, 
nor  mangle  your  lip,  nor  grate  your  teeth 
together.  If  you  could  only  weep  ! 

— Another  day.  The  coffin  is  gone  out. 
The  stupid  mourners  have  wept — what  idle 
tears  !  She,  with  your  crushed  heart,  has 
gone  out ! 

Will  you  have  pleasant  evenings  at  your 
home  now  ? 

Go  into  your  parlor  that  your  prim 
housekeeper  has  made  comfortable  with 
clean  hearth  and  blaze  of  sticks. 

Sit  down  in  your  chair ;  there  is  another 
velvet -cushioned  one,  over  against  yours — 
empty.  You  press  your  fingers  on  your 
eye-balls,  as  if  you  would  press  out  some- 
thing that  hurt  the  brain  ;  but  you  cannot. 
Your  head  leans  upon  your  hand ;  your 
eye  rests  upon  the  flashing  blaze. 

Ashes  always  come  after  blaze. 

Go  now  into  the  room  where  she  was 
sick — softly,  lest  the  prim  housekeeper 
come  after. 

They  have  put  new  dimity  upon  her 
chair ;  they  have  hung  new  curtains  over 
the  bed.  They  have  removed  from  the 
stand  its  phials,  and  silver  bell ;  they  have 
put  a  little  vase  of  flowers  in  their  place  ; 
the  perfume  will  not  offend  the  sick  sense 


ASHES— SIGNIFYING  DESOLATION.      49 

now.  They  have  half  opened  the  window, 
that  the  room  so  long  closed  may  have  air. 
It  will  not  be  too  cold. 

She  is  not  there. 

Oh,  God  ! — thou  who  dost  temper 

the  wind  to  the  shorn  lamb — be  kind ! 

The  embers  were  dark ;  I  stirred  them ; 
there  was  no  sign  of  life.  My  dog  was 
asleep.  The  clock  in  my  tenant's  chamber 
had  struck  one. 

I  dashed  a  tear  or  two  from  my  eyes ; — 
how  they  came  there  I  know  not..  I  half 
ejaculated  a  prayer  of  thanks,  that  such 
desolation  had  not  yet  come  nigh  me ;  and 
a  prayer  of  hope — that  it  might  never 
come. 

In  a  half  hour  more,  I  was  sleeping 
soundly.  My  reverie  was  ended. 


SECOND  REVERIE 


SEA  COAL  AND  ANTHRACITE 


(50 


BY  A  CITY  GRATE. 


BLESSED  be  letters !— they  are  the 
monitors,  they  are  also  the  comfort- 
ers, and  they  are  the  only  true  heart- 
talkers  !  Your  speech,  and  their  speeches, 
are  conventional ;  they  are  moulded  by  cir- 
cumstance ;  they  are  suggested  by  the  ob- 
servation, remark,  and  influence  of  the 
parties  to  whom  the  speaking  is  addressed, 
or  by  whom  it  may  be  overheard. 

Your  truest  thought  is  modified  half 
through  its  utterance  by  a  look,  a  sign,  a 
smile,  or  a  sneer.  It  is  not  individual;  it 
is  not  integral:  it  is  social  and  mixed, — 
half  of  you,  and  half  of  others.  It  bends, 
it  sways,  it  multiplies,  it  retires,  and  it 
advances,  as  the  talk  of  others  presses, 
relaxes,  or  quickens. 

But  it  is  not  so  of  Letters  : — there  you 

are,  with  only  the  soulless  pen,  and  the 

snow-white,   virgin  paper.     Your  soul  is 

measuring  itself  by  itself,  and  saying  its 

(53) 


*  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

own  sayings  :  there  are  no  sneers  to  modify 
its  utterance, — no  scowl  to  scare, — noth- 
ing is  present,  but  you,  and  your  thought. 

Utter  it   then  freely — write  it   down — 

stamp  it — burn  it  in  the  ink ! There  it 

is,  a  true  soul-print ! 

Oh,  the  glory,  the  freedom,  the  passion 
of  a  letter  !  It  is  worth  all  the  lip-talk  in  the 
world.  Do  you  say,  it  is  studied,  made 
op,  acted,  rehearsed,  contrived,  artistic  ? 

Let  me  see  it  then ;  let  me  run  it  over ; 
tell  me  age,  sex,  circumstance,  and  I  will 
tell  you  if  it  be  studied  or  real ;— if  it  be 
the  merest  lip-slang  put  into  words,  or 
heart -talk  blazing  on  the  paper. 
_  I  have  a  little  pacquet,  not  very  large, 
tied  up  with  narrow  crimson  ribbon,  now 
soiled  with  frequent  handling,  which  far 
into  some  winter's  night,  I  take  down  from 
its  nook  upon  my  shelf,  and  untie,  and 
open,  and  run  over,  with  such  sorrow,  and 
such  joy, — such  tears  and  such  smiles,  as  I 
am  sure  make  me  for  weeks  after  a  kinder 
and  holier  man. 

There  are  in  this  little  pacquet,  letters 

in  the  familiar  hand  of  a  mother what 

gentle  admonition ;— what  tender  affection ! 
— God  have  mercy  on  him  who  outlives  the 
tears  that  such  admonitions,  and  such  affec- 
tion call  up  to  the  eye !  There  are  others 
in  the  budget,  in  the  delicate,  and  unformed 


BY  A  CITY  GRATE.  » 

hand  of  a  loved,  and  lost  sister ; — written 
when  she,  and  you  were  full  of  glee,  and 
the  best  mirth  of  youthfulness  ;  does  it 
harm  you  to  recall  that  mirthf ulness  ?  or  to 
trace  again,  for  the  hundredth  time,  that 
scrawling  postscript  at  the  bottom,  with  its 
i's  so  carefully  dotted,  and  its  gigantic  fs 
so  carefully  crossed,  by  the  childish  hand 
of  a  little  brother  ? 

I  have  added  latterly  to  that  pacquet  of 
letters ;  I  almost  need  a  new  and  longer 
ribbon ;  the  old  one  is  getting  too  short. 
Not  a  few  of  these  new  and  cherished  let- 
ters, a  former  Reverie*  has  brought  to  me; 
not  letters  of  cold  praise,  saying  it  was 
well  done,  artfully  executed,  prettily  im- 
agined— no  such  thing  :  but  letters  of  sym- 
pathy— of  sympathy  which  means  sym- 
pathy— the  TraOrj/j.i  and  the  o-w. 

It  would  be  cold,  and  dastardly  work  to 
copy  them  ;  I  am  too  selfish  for  that.  It 
is  enough  to  say  that  they,  the  kind  writ- 
ers, have  seen  a  heart  in  the  Reverie — have 
felt  that  it  was  real,  true.  They  know  it ; 
a  secret  influence  has  told  it.  What  mat- 
ters it,  pray,  if  literally,  there  was  no  wife, 
and  no  dead  child,  and  no  coffin  in  the 
house  ?  Is  not  feeling,  feeling ;  and  heart, 

*  The  first  Reverie — Smoke,  Flame,  and  Ashes, 
was  published  some  months  previous  to  this,  in  the 
Southern  Literary  Messenger. 


56  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

heart  ?  Are  not  these  fancies  thronging 
on  my  brain,  bringing  tears  to  my  eyes, 
bringing  joy  to  my  soul,  as  living,  as  any- 
thing human  can  be  living  ?  What  if  they 
have  no  material  type — no  objective  form  ? 
All  that  is  crude, — a  mere  reduction  of 
ideality  to  sense, — a  transformation  of  the 
spiritual  to  the  earthy, — a  levelling  of  soul 
to  matter. 

Are  we  not  creatures  of  thought  and 
passion  ?  Is  anything  about  us  more  earn- 
est than  that  same  thought  and  passion  ? 
Is  there  anything  more  real, — more  char- 
acteristic of  that  great  and  dim  destiny  to 
which  we  are  born,  and  which  may  be  writ- 
ten down  in  that  terrible  word — Forever  ? 

Let  those  who  will  then,  sneer  at  what 
in  their  wisdom  they  call  untruth — at  what 
is  false,  because  it  has  no  material  presence  : 
this  does  not  create  falsity  ;  would  to 
Heaven  that  it  did  ! 

And  yet,  if  there  was  actual,  material 
truth,  superadded  to  Reverie,  would  such 
objectors  sympathize  the  more  ?  No  ! — a 
thousand  times,  no ;  the  heart  that  has  no 
sympathy  with  thoughts  and  feelings  that 
scorch  the  soul,  is  dead  also — whatever  its 
mocking  tears,  and  gestures  may  say — to  a 
coffin  or  a  grave  ! 

Let  them  pass,  and  we  will  come  back  to 
these  cherished  letters. 


BESIDE  A  CITY  GRA  TE.  57 

A  mother,  who  has  lost  a  child,  has,  she 
says,  shed  a  tear — not  one,  but  many — over 
the  dead  boy's  coldness.  And  another,  who 
has  not  lost,  but  who  trembles  lest  she  lose, 
has  found  the  words  failing  as  she  read, 
and  a  dim,  sorrow-borne  mist,  spreading 
over  the  page. 

Another,  yet  rejoicing  in  all  those  family 
ties,  that  make  life  a  charm,  has  listened 
nervously  to  careful  reading,  until  the  hus- 
band is  called  home,  and  the  coffin  is  in  the 
house. — "  Stop  !" — she  says ;  and  a  gush  of 
tears  tells  the  rest. 

Yet  the  cold  critic  will  say — "it  was  art- 
fully done."  A  curse  on  him  ! — it  was  not 
art:  it  was  nature. 

Another,  a  young,  fresh,  healthful  girl- 
mind,  has  seen  something  in  the  love-picture 
— albeit  so  weak — of  truth  ;  and  has  kindly 
believed  that  it  must  be  earnest.  Aye,  in- 
deed is  it,  fair,  and  generous  one, — earnest 
as  life  and  hope  !  Who  indeed  with  a  heart 
at  all,  that  has  not  yet  slipped  away  irrep- 
arably, and  forever  from  the  shores  of 
youth — from  that  fairy  land  which  young 
enthusiasm  creates,  and  over  which  bright 
dreams  hover — but  knows  it  to  be  real? 
And  so  such  things  will  be  real,  till  hopes 
are  dashed,  and  Death  is  come. 

Another,  a  father,  has  laid  down  the  book 
in  tears. 


g*  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR, 

— God  bless  them  all !  How  far  better  thig, 
than  the  cold  praise  of  newspaper  para- 
graphs, or  the  critically  contrived  approval 
of  colder  friends  I 

Let  me  gather  up  these  letters,  carefully, 
— to  be  read  when  the  heart  is  faint,  and 
'  sick  of  all  that  there  is  unreal,  and  selfish 
in  the  world.  Let  me  tie  them  together, 
with  a  new,  and  longer  bit  of  ribbon — not 
by  a  love  knot,  that  is  too  hard — but  by  an 
easy  slipping  knot,  that  so  I  may  get  at 
them  the  better.  And  now,  they  are  all  to- 
gether, a  snug  pacquet,  and  we  will  label 
them,  not  sentimentally,  (I  pity  the  one  who 
thinks  it !)  but  earnestly,  and  in  the  best 
meaning  of  the  term — SOUVENIRS  DU  CCEUR. 

Thanks  to  my  first  Reverie,  which  has 
added  to  such  a  treasure  ! 

— And  now  to  my  SECOND  REVERIE. 

I  am  no  longer  in  the  country.  The 
fields,  the  trees,  the  brooks  are  far  away 
from  me,  and  yet  they  are  very  present. 
A  letter  from  my  tenant— how  different 
from  those  other  letters! — lies  upon  my 
table,  telling  me  what  fields  he  has  broken 
up  for  the  autumn  grain,  and  how  many 
beeves  he  is  fattening,  and  how  the  pota- 
toes are  turning  out. 

But  I  am  in  a  garret  of  the  city.  From 
my  window  I  look  over  a  mass  of  crowded 
house-tops  —  moralizing  often  upon  the 


BESIDE  A  CITY  GRATE.  39 

scene,  but  in  a  strain  too  long,  and  sombre 
to  be  set  down  here.  In  place  of  the  wide 
country  chimnev,  with  its  iron  fire-dogs,  is 
a  snug  grate,  where  the  maid  makes  me  a 
fire  in  the  morning,  and  rekindles  it  in  the 
afternoon. 

I  am  usually  fairly  seated  in  my  chair — 
a  cozily  stuffed  office  chair — by  five  or  six 
o'clock  of  the  evening.  The  fire  has  been 
newly  made,  perhaps  an  hour  before :  first, 
the  maid  drops  a  withe  of  paper  in  the 
bottom  of  the  grate,  then  a  stick  or  two  of 
pine-wood,  and  after  it  a  hod  of  Liverpool 
coal ;  so  that  by  the  time  I  am  seated  for 
the  evening,  the  sea-coal  is  fairly  in  a 
blaze. 

When  this  has  sunk  to  a  level  with  the 
second  bar  of  the  grate,  the  maid  replen- 
ishes it  with  a  hod  of  Anthracite;  and  I 
sit  musing  and  reading,  while  the  new  coal 
warms  and  kindles — not  leaving  my  place, 
until  it  has  sunk  to  the  third  bar  of  the 
grate,  which  marks  my  bed-time. 

I  love  these  accidental  measures  of  the 
nours,  which  belong  to  you,  and  your  life, 
and  not  to  the  world.  A  watch  is  no  more 
the  measure  of  your  time,  than  of  the  time 
of  your  neighbors;  a  church  clock  is  as 
public,  and  vulgar  as  a  church-warden.  I 
would  as  soon  think  of  hiring  the  parish 
sexton  to  make  my  bed,  as  to  regulate  my 
time  by  the  parish  clock. 


So  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

A  shadow  that  the  sun  casts  upon  your 
carpet,  or  a  streak  of  light  on  a  slated  roof 
yonder,  or  the  burning  of  your  fire,  are 
pleasant  time-keepers,— full  of  presence, 
full  of  companionship,  and  full  of  the 
warning — time  is  passing ! 

In  the  summer  season  I  have  even  meas 
ured  my  reading,  and  my  night-watch,  by 
the  burning  of  a  taper;  and  I  have  scratch 
ed  upon  the  handle  to  the  little  bronze 
taper-holder,  that  meaning  passage  of  the 
New  Testament,— Nu^  ydp  IPYCTCU— the  night 
cometh ! 

But  I  must  get  upon  my  Reverie  :— it 
was  a  drizzly  evening ;  I  had  worked  hard 
during  the  day,  and  had  drawn  my  boots- 
thrust  my  feet  into  slippers— thrown  on  a 
Turkish  loose  dress,  and  Greek  cap— sou- 
venirs  to  me  of  other  times,  and  other 
places— and  sat  watching  the  lively,  un- 
certain, yellow  play  of  the  bituminous 
flame. 


SEA-COAL 

IT  is  like  a  flirt — mused  I; — lively,   un- 
certain,   bright-colored,    waving    here 
and  there,  melting  the  coal  into  black 
shapeless  mass,  making  foul,  sooty  smoke, 
and  pasty,  trashy  residuum  !   Yet  withal, — 
pleasantly  sparkling,  dancing,  prettily  wav- 
ing, and  leaping  like  a  roebuck  from  point 
to  point. 

How  like  a  flirt !  And  yet  is  not  this 
tossing  caprice  of  girlhood,  to  which  I  liken 
my  sea-coal  flame,  a  native  play  of  life,  and 
belonging  by  nature  to  the  play-time  of 
life?  Is  it  not  a  sort  of  essential  fire- 
kindling  to  the  weightier  and  truer  passion*, 
— even  as  Jenny  puts  the  soft  coal  first,  th& 
better  to  kindle  the  anthracite?  Is  it  not 
a  sort  of  necessary  consumption  of  young 
vapors,  which  float  in  the  soul,  and  which 
is  left  thereafter  the  purer  ?  Is  there  not  a 
stage  somewhere  in  every  man's  youth,  foi 
(60 


6*  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

just  such  waving,  idle  heart-blaze,  which 
means  nothing,  yet  which  must  be  got  over? 
Lamartme  says  somewhere,  very  prettily 
that  there  is  more  of  quick  running  sap 
and  floating  shade  in  a  young  tree;  but 
more  of  fire  in  the  heart  of  a  sturdy  oak  •— 
//  y  a  plus  de  seve  folk  et  cf  ombre  flottante 
dans  lesjeunes  plants  de  la  fortt;  ilyaplus 
deft*  dans  le  vieux  cceur  du  chtne. 

is  Lamartine  playing  off  his  prettiness 

expression,  dressing  up  with  his  poetry 

-making  a  good   conscience  against  the 

*  of   some   accusing   Graziella,   or  is 

there  truth  in  the  matter  ? 

A  man  who  has  seen  sixty  years,  whether 
widower  or  bachelor,  may7  well   pu    such 

w°rds: 


;  *,  renews  the  exultation 
PIeasantest  of  equivoca 

of 


nn       h      K  M          '   1S  !t  not   true?        s 

not  the  heart  like  new  blossoming  field- 
oiaen,H  WIhoseufirst  flo^rs  are  half-formed, 
one-sided  perhaps,  but  by-and-by,  in  ma 

wenfo  ftfn'  Puttin/out  wholesome, 
well-formed  blossoms,  that  will  hold  their 
leaves  long  and  bravely  ? 

Bulwer  in  his  story  of  the  Caxtons  has 

sCa°Unted  ^f-  heart-4hts  mere  fancy-pi. 

2JSTJ1  dalhance  with  the  breezes  of  love 

ich  pass,  and  leave  healthful  heart  ap- 


SEA- COAL.  63 

petite.  Half  the  reading  world  has  read 
the  story  of  Trevanion  and  Pisistratus. 
But  Bulwer  is — past ;  his  heart-life  is  used 
up — fyuise.  Such  a  man  can  very  safely 
rant  about  the  cool  judgment  of  after  years. 

Where  does  Shakspeare  put  the  unripe 
heart -age  ? — All  of  it  before  the  ambition, 
that  alone  makes  the  hero-soul.  The 
Shakspeare  man  "sighs  like  a  furnace," 
before  he  stretches  his  arm  to  achieve  the 
"  bauble,  reputation." 

Yet  Shakspeare  has  meted  a  soul-love, 
mature  and  ripe,  without  any  young  furnace 
sighs  to  Desdemona  and  Othello.  Cordelia, 
the  sweetest  of  his  play  creations,  loves 
without  any  of  the  mawkish  matter,  which 
makes  the  whining  love  of  a  Juliet.  And 
Florizel  in  the  Winter's  Tale,  says  to  Per- 
dita,  in  the  true  spirit  of  a  most  sound 
heart — 

My  desires 

Run  not  before  mine  honor,  nor  my  wishes 
Burn  hotter  than  my  faith. 

How  is  it  with  Hector  and  Andromache  ? 
— no  sea-coal  blaze,  but  one  that  is  con- 
stant, enduring,  pervading  :  a  pair  of  hearts 
full  of  esteem,  and  best  love, — good,  honest, 
and  sound. 

Look  now  at  Adam  and  Eve,  in  God's 
presence,  with  Milton  for  showman.  Shall 


*4  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

we  quote  by  this  sparkling  blaze,  a  °-em 
from  the  Paradise  Lost?  We  will  hC 
it  to  ourselves—  what  Raphael  sings  to 
Adam—  a  classic  song. 


-  Him,  serve  and  fear  ! 

est 

hou 


~£  ,  ear 

Of  other  creatures,  as  Him  pleases  best 
Wherever  placed,  let  Him  dispose  ;  joy  t 

Andw^i\gi^rthee'thispar^- 

And  again  : 

The  thoughts,  and  hea^S^J?  feh  his  * 

Bvwh-°h'tanuiS  Jud7idous:  is  the  scale 

By  which  to  Heavenly  love  thou  may'st  ascend  I 


whrhK  u  n  this  ^6, 

which  belongs  to  the  flame  of  my  sea-coa 
fire  that  is  now  dancing,  lively  as  a  cricket 
can  s  ngab°Ut  my  garret  Camber,  I 


K  , 

en  i        h^  resembles  the  arch- 

gel Raphael,  or  "thy  fair  Eve." 

nrfflS  a  deguee  0/  moist«re  about  the 
sea-coal  flame,  which 


S0mewhere  'n   the  Excur- 


SEA- COAL.  t 

The  good  die  first, 

And  they  whose  hearts  are  dry  as  summer  dust 
Burn  to  the  socket ! 


What,  in  the  name  of  Rydal  Mount,  is  a 
dry  heart  ?  A  dusty  one,  I  can  conceive 
of:  a  bachelor's  heart  must  be  somewhat 
dusty,  as  he  nears  the  sixtieth  summer  of 
his  pilgrimage ; — and  hung  over  with  cob- 
webs, in  which  sit  such  watchful  gray  old 
spiders  as  Avarice,  and  Selfishness,  for- 
ever on  the  look  out  for  such  bottle-green 
flies  as  Lust. 

"I  will  never" — said  I — griping  at  the 
elbows  of  my  chair, — "  live  a  bachelor  till 
sixty: — never,  so  surely  as  there  is  hope 
in  man,  or  charity  in  woman,  or  faith  in 
both!" 

And  with  that  thought,  my  heart  leaped 
about  in  playful  coruscations,  even  like  the 
flame  of  the  sea-coal ; — rising,  and  wrap- 
ping round  old  and  tender  memories,  and 
images  that  were  present  to  me, — trying  to 
cling,  and  yet  no  sooner  fastened,  than  off 
' — dancing  again,  riotous  in  its  exultation 
— a  succession  of  heart-sparkles,  blazing, 
and  going  out ! 

— And  is  there  not — mused  I, — a  portion 
of  this  world,  forever  blazing  in  just  such 
lively  sparkles,  waving  here  and  there  as 
the  air-currents  fan  them? 


«  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

Take  for  instance  your  heart  of  senti- 
ment, and  quick  sensibility,  a  weak,  warm- 
working  heart,  flying  off  in  tangents  of  un- 
happy influence,  unguided  by  prudence, 
and  perhaps  virtue.  There  is  a  paper  by 
Mackenzie  in  the  Mirror,  for  April,  1780, 
which  sets  this  untoward  sensibility  in  a 
strong  light. 

And  the  more  it  is  indulged,  the  more 
strong  and  binding  such  a  habit  of  sensi- 
bility becomes.     Poor   Mackenzie  himself 
must  have  suffered  thus;  you  cannot  read 
his  .books  without  feeling  it;  your  eye,  in  spite 
of  you,  runs  over  with  his  sensitive  griefs 
while  you  are  half-ashamed  of  his  success 
at  picture-making.     It  is  a  terrible  inherit- 
ance; and  one  that  a  strong  man  or  woman 
will  study  to  subdue :  it  is  a  vain  sea-coal 
sparkling,  which  will  count  no  good      The 
world  is  made  of  much  hard,  flinty  sub- 
stance,  against   which    your    better,    and 
holier    thoughts    will  be   striking   fire  — 
see  to  it,  that  the  sparks  do  not  burn  you  I 
But  what  a  happy,  careless  life  belongs 
to  this  Bachelorhood,  in  which  you   may 
strike  out    boldly   right  and  left!     Your 
heart  is  not  bound  to  another  which  may 
be  full  of  only  sickly  vapors  of  feeling;  nor 
is  it  frozen  to  a  cold,  man's  heart  under  a 
silk  boddice— knowing  nothing  of  tender- 
ness but  the  name,  to  prate  of;  and  nothing 


SEA- COAL.  67 

of  soul-confidence,  but  clumsy  confession. 
And  if  in  your  careless  out-goings  of 
feeling,  you  get  here,  only  a  little  lip  vapid- 
ity in  return ;  be  sure  that  you  will  find, 
elsewhere,  a  true  heart  utterance.  This 
last  you  will  cherish  in  your  inner  soul — a 
nucleus  for  a  new  group  of  affections;  and 
the  other  will  pass  with  a  whiff  of  your 
cigar. 

Or  if  your  feelings  are  touched,  struck, 
hurt,  who  is  the  wiser,  or  the  worse,  but 
you  only  ?  And  have  you  not  the  whole 
skein  of  your  heart -life  in  your  own  fingers 
to  wind,  or  unwind,  in  what  shape  you 
please  ?  Shake  it  or  twine  it,  or  tangle  it, 
by  the  light  of  your  fire,  as  you  fancy  best. 
He  is  a  weak  man  who  cannot  twist  and 
weave  the  threads  of  his  feeling — however 
fine,  however  tangled,  however  strained,  or 
however  strong — into  the  great  cable  of 
Purpose,  by  which  he  lies  moored  to  his 
life  of  Action. 

Reading  is  a  great,  and  happy  disen- 
tangler  of  all  those  knotted  snarls — those 
extravagant  vagaries,  which  belong  to  a 
heart  sparkling  with  sensibility;  but  the 
reading  must  be  cautiously  directed.  There 
is  old,  placid  Burton  when  your  soul  is  weak, 
and  its  digestion  of  life's  humors  is  bad ; 
there  is  Cowper  when  your  spirit  runs  into 
kindly,  half-sad,  religious  musing ;  there  is 


68  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

Crabbe  when  you  would  shake  off  vagary, 
by  a  little  handling  of  sharp  actualities. 
There'  is  Voltaire,  a  homeopathic  doctor, 
whom  you  can  read  when  you  want  to 
make  a  play  of  life,  and  crack  jokes  at 
Nature,  and  be  witty  with  Destiny  ;  there 
is  Rousseau,  when  you  want  to  lose  your- 
self in  a  mental  dream-land,  and  be  be- 
guiled by  the  harmony  of  soul-music  and 
soul-culture. 

And  when  you  would  shake  off  this,  and 
be  sturdiest  among  the  battlers  for  hard, 
world-success,  and  be  forewarned  of  rocks 
against  which  you  must  surely  smite — read 
Bolingbroke  ; — run  over  the  letters  of  Lyt- 
tleton  ;  read,  and  think  of  what  you  read, 
in  the  cracking  lines  of  Rochefoucauld. 
How  he  sums  us  up  in  his  stinging  words  ! — 
how  he  puts  the  scalpel  between  the  nerves 
— yet  he  never  hurts  ;  for  he  is  dissecting 
•dead  matter. 

If  you  are  in  a  genial  careless  mood,  who 
is  better  than  such  extemporizers  of  feel- 
ing and  nature — good-hearted  fellows — as 
Sterne  and  Fielding  ? 

And  then  again,  there  are  Milton  and 
Isaiah,  to  lift  up  one's  soul  until  it  touches 
cloud-land,  and  you  wander  with  their 
guidance,  on  swift  feet,  to  the  very  gates  of 
Heaven. 

But  this    sparkling    sensibility   to    one 


SEA- COAL.  69 

struggling  under  infirmity,  or  with  grief  or 
poverty,  is  very  dreadful.  The  soul  is  too 
nicely  and  keenly  hinged  to  be  wrenched 
without  mischief.  How  it  shrinks,  like  a 
hurt  child,  from  all  that  is  vulgar,  harsh, 
and  crude !  Alas,  for  such  a  man  ! — he 
will  be  buffeted,  from  beginning  to  end ; 
his  life  will  be  a  sea  of  troubles.  The  poor 
victim  of  his  own  quick  spirit  he  wanders 
with  a  great  shield  of  doubt  hung  before 
him,  so  that  none,  not  even  friends,  can  see 
the  goodness  of  such  kindly  qualities  as 
belong  to  him.  Poverty,  if  it  comes  upon 
him,  he  wrestles  with  in  secret,  with  strong, 
frenzied  struggles.  He  wraps  hi«  scant 
clothes  about  him  to  keep  him  from  the 
cold;  and  eyes  the  world,  as  if  every 
creature  in  it  was  breathing  chill  blasts  at 
him,  from  every  opened  mouth.  He  threads 
the  crowded  ways  of  the  city,  proud  in  his 
griefs,  vain  in  his  weakness,  not  stopping 
to  do  good.  Bulwer,  in  the  New  Timon, 
has  painted  in  a  pair  of  stinging  Pope-like 
lines,  this  feeling  in  a  woman : 

Her  vengeful  pride,  a  kind  of  madness  grown, 
She  hugged  her  wrongs,  her  sorrow  was  her 
throne ! 

Cold  picture !  yet  the  heart  was  spark* 
ling  under  it,  like  my  sea-coal  fire  ;  lifting 
and  blazing,  and  lighting  and  falling, — but 


TO  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

with  no  object ;  and  only  such  little  heat  as 
begins  and  ends  within. 

Those  fine  sensibilities,  ever  active,  are 
chasing  and  observing  all ;  they  catch  a  hue 
from  what  the  dull  and  callous  pass  by  un- 
noticed,— because  unknown.  They  blunder 
at  the  great  variety  of  the  world's  opinions  ; 
they  see  tokens  of  belief,  where  others  see 
none.  That  delicate  organization  is  a  curse 
to  a  man ;  and  yet  poor  fool,  he  does  not 
see  where  his  cure  lies  ;  he  wonders  at  his 
griefs,  and  has.  never  reckoned  with  himself 
their  source.  He  studies  others,  without 
studying  himself.  He  eats  the  leaves  that 
sicken,  and  never  plucks  up  the  root  that 
will  ci  re. 

Wit.  a  woman  it  is  worse;  with  her,  this 
delicat^  susceptibility  is  like  a  frail  flower, 
that  quivers  at  every  rough  blast  of  heaven  ; 
her  own  delicacy  wounds  her ;  her  highest 
charm  is  perverted  to  a  curse. 

She  listens  with  fear;  she  reads  with 
trembling ;  she  looks  with  dread.  Her  sym- 
pathies give  a  tone,  like  the  harp  of  y£olus,| 
to  the  slightest  breath.  Her  sensibility 
lights  up,  and  quivers  and  falls,  like  the 
name  of  a  sea-coal  fire. 

If  she  loves—(and  may  not  a  Bachelor  rea- 
son on  this  daintiest  of  topics)— her  love  is 
a  gushing,  wavy  flame,  lit  up  with  hope, 
that  has  only  a  little  kindling  matter  to 


SEA- COAL.  71 

light  it ;  and  this  soon  burns  out.  Yet  in- 
tense sensibility  will  persuade  her  that  the 
flame  still  scorches.  She  will  mistake  the 
annoyance  of  affection  unrequited  for  the 
sting  of  a  passion,  that  she  fancies  still 
burns.  She  does  not  look  deep  enough  to 
see  that  the  passion  is  gone,  and  the  shock- 
ed sensitiveness  emits  only  faint,  yellowish 
sparkles  in  its  place  ;  her  high-wrought  or- 
ganization makes  those  sparks  seem  a  verit- 
able flame. 

With  her,  judgment,  prudence,  and  dis- 
cretion are  cold  measured  terms,  which  have 
no  meaning,  except  as  they  attach  to  the 
actions  of  others.  Of  her  own  acts  she  nev- 
er predicates  them;  feeling  is  much  too  high, 
to  allow  her  to  submit  to  any  such  obtrusive 
guides  of  conduct.  She  needs  disappoint- 
ment to  teach  her  truth ; — to  teach  that  all  is 
not  gold  that  glitters  —  to  teach  that  all 
warmth  does  not  blaze.  But  let  her  beware 
how  she  sinks  under  any  fancied  disap- 
pointments :  she  who  sinks  under  real  dis- 
appointment, lacks  philosophy  ;  but  she  who 
sinks  under  a  fancied  one,  lacks  purpose. 
Let  her  flee  as  the  plague  such  brooding 
thoughts  as  she  will  love  to  cherish ;  let  her 
spurn  dark  fancies  as  the  visitants  of  hell ; 
let  the  soul  rise  with  the  blaze  of  new-kin- 
dled, active,  and  world-wide  emotions,  and 
so  brighten  into  steady  and  constant  flame. 


72  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

Let  her  abjure  such  poets  as  Cowper,  or  By- 
ron, or  even  Wordsworth  ;  and  if  she  must 
poetize,  let  her  lay  her  mind  to  such  manly 
verse  as  Pope's,  or  to  such  sound  and  ring- 
ing organry  as  Comus. 

My  fire  was  getting  dull,  and  I  thrust  in 
the  poker  :  it  started  up  on  the  instant  into 
a  hundred  little  angry  tongues  of  flame. 

— Just  so — thought  I — the  over-sensitive 
heart  once  cruelly  disturbed,  will  fling  out 
a  score  of  flaming  passions,  darting  here, 
and  darting  there, — half-smoke,  half-flame 
—love  and  hate — canker  and  joy — wild  in  its 
madness,  not  knowing  whither  its  sparks 
are  flying.  Once  break  roughly  upon  the 
affections,  or  even  the  fancied  affections  of 
such  a  soul,  and  you  breed  a  tornado  of  mad- 
dened action — a  whirlwind  of  fire  that  hisses, 
and  sends  out  jets  of  wild,  impulsive  com- 
bustion, that  make  the  bystanders, —  even 
those  most  friendly— stand  aloof,  until  the 
storm  is  past. 

But  this  is  not  all  that  the  dashing  flame 
of  my  sea-coal  suggests. 

How  like  a  flirt !— mused  I  again,  re- 
curring to  my  first  thought— so  lively,  yet  un- 
certain ;  so  bright,  yet  so  flickering  !  Your 
true  flirt  plays  with  sparkles  ;  her  heart, 
much  as  there  is  of  it,  spends  itself  in 
sparkles  ;  she  measures  it  to  sparkle,  and 
habit  grows  into  nature,  so  that  anon,  it  can 


SEA- COAL.  73 

only  sparkle.  How  carefully  she  cramps  it, 
if  the  flames  show  too  great  a  heat ;  how  dex- 
terously she  flings  its  blaze  here  and  there ; 
how  coyly  she  subdues  it ;  how  winningly 
she  lights  it ! 

All  this  is  the  entire  reverse  of  the  unpre- 
meditated dartings  of  the  soul  at  which  I 
have  been  looking;  sensibility  scorns  heart- 
curbings,  and  heart-teachings  ;  sensibility 
enquires  not — how  much  ?  but  only — where? 

Your  true  flirt  has  a  coarse-grained  soul ; 
well  modulated  and  well  tutored,  but  there 
is  no  fineness  in  it.  All  its  native  fineness 
is  made  coarse,  by  coarse  efforts  of  the 
will.  True  feeling  is  a  rustic  vulgarity, 
the  flirt  does  not  tolerate ;  she  counts  its 
healthiest  and  most  honest  manifestation, 
all  sentiment.  Yet  she  will  play  you  off 
a  pretty  string  of  sentiment,  which  she  has 
gathered  from  the  poets;  she  adjusts  it 
prettily  as  a  Gobelin  weaver  adjusts  the 
colors  in  his  tapis.  She  shades  it  off  de- 
lightfully ;  there  are  no  bold  contrasts,  but 
a  most  artistic  mellow  of  nuances.  • 

She  smiles  like  a  wizard,  and  jingles  it 
with  a  laugh,  such  as  tolled  the  poor  home- 
bound  Ulysses  to  the  Circean  bower.  She 
has  a  cast  of  the  head,  apt  and  artful  as 
the  most  dexterous  cast  of  the  best  trout- 
killing  rod.  Her  words  sparkle,  and  flow 
hurriedly,  and  with  the  prettiest  double^ 


7*  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

ness  of  meaning.  Naturalness  she  copies, 
and  she  scorns.  She  accuses  herself  of  a 
single  expression  or  regard,  which  nature 
prompts.  She  prides  herself  on  her  school- 
ing. She  measures  her  wit  by  the  triumphs 
of  her  art;  she  chuckles  over  her  own 
falsity  to  herself.  And  if  by  chance  her 
soul— such  germ  as  is  left  of  it— be- 
trays her  into  untoward  confidence,  she 
condemns  herself,  as  if  she  had  committed 
crime. 

She  is  always  gay,  because  she  has  no 
depth  of  feeling  to  be  stirred.  The  brook 
that  runs  shallow  over  hard  pebbly  bottom 
always  rustles.  She  is  light-hearted,  be- 
cause her  heart  floats  in  sparkles— like 
my  sea-coal  fire.  She  counts  on  marriage, 
not  as  the  great  absorbent  of  a  heart's-love, 
and  life,  but  as  a  happy,  feasible,  and 
orderly  conventionality,  to  be  played  with, 
and  kept  at  distance,  and  finally  to  be  ac- 
cepted as  a  cover  for  the  faint  and  tawdry 
sparkles  of  an  old  and  cherished  heartless- 
ness. 

She  will  not  pine  under  any  regrets,  be- 
cause she  has  no  appreciation  of  any  loss- 
she  will  not  chafe  at  indifference,  because 
t  is  her  art ;  she  will  not  be  worried  with 
ifr  uUsies'  because  she  is  ignorant  of  love. 
With  no  conception  of  the  soul  in  its 
strength  and'  fulness,  she  sees  no  lack  «( 


SEA-COAL.  75 

its  demands.  A  thrill,  she  does  not  know; 
a  passion,  she  cannot  imagine;  joy  is  a 
name ;  grief  is  another ;  and  Life  with  its 
crowding  scenes  of  love,  and  bitterness,  is 
a  play  upon  the  stage. 

I  think  it  is  Madame  Dudevant  who  says, 
in  something  like  the  same  connection : — 
Les  hiboux  ne  connaissent pas  le  chemin  par 
oil  les  aigles  -vont  au  soleil. 

Poor  Ned  ! — mused  I,  looking  at  the 

play  of  the  fire — was  a  victim  and  a  conque~ 
ror.  He  was  a  man  of  a  full,  strong  nature — 
not  a  little  impulsive — with  action  too  full  of 
earnestness  for  most  of  men  to  see  its  drift. 
He  had  known  little  of  what  is  called  the 
world  ;  he  was  fresh  in  feeling  and  high  of 
hope ;  he  had  been  encircled  always  by 
friends  who  loved  him,  and  who,  may  be, 
flattered  him.  Scarce  had  he  entered  upon 
the  tangled  life  of  the  city,  before  he  met 
with  a  sparkling  face  and  an  airy  step,  that 
stirred  something  in  poor  Ned,  that  he  had 
never  felt  before.  With  him,  to  feel  was 
to  act.  He  was  not  one  to  be  despised ; 
for  notwithstanding  he  wore  a  country  air, 
and  the  awkwardness  of  a  man  who  has 
yet  the  biensfance  of  social  life  before  him, 
he  had  the  soul,  the  courage,  and  the  talent 
of  a  strong  man.  Little  gifted  in  the 
knowledge  of  face-play,  he  easily  mistook 
those  coy  manoeuvres  of  a  sparkling  heart, 


76  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

for  something  kindred   to   his   own   true 
emotions. 

She  was  proud  of  the  attentions  of  a 
man  who  carried  a  mind  in  his  brain  :  and 
flattered  poor  Ned  almost  into  servility 
-Ned  had  no  friends  to  counsel  him  ;  or 'if 
5  ?  •  m'  his  imPulses  would  have  blind- 
ed him  Never  was  dodger  more  artful  at 
the  Olympic  Games  than  the  Peggy  of 
Ned  s  heart-affection.  He  was  charged, 
beguiled,  entranced. 

When  Ned  spoke  of  love,  she  staved  it 
-Ti     ^e  Pettiest  of  sly  looks  that  only 
bewildered  him  the  more.      A  charming 
creature  to  be  sure ;  coy  as  a  dove ! 

bo  he  went  on,  poor  fool,  until  one  day 
-he  told  me  of  it  with  the  blood  mounting 
to  his  temples,  and  his  eye  shooting'  flam? 
-he  suffered  his  feelings  to  run  out  in  pas- 
sionate   avowal,  -  entreaty,  -  everything. 
ie  gave  a  pleasant,  noisy  laugh,  and  maS- 
ifested— such  pretty  surprise  ! 

He  was  looking  for  the  intense  glow  of 
passion  ;  and  o,  there  was  nothing  but  the 
shifting  sparkle  of  a  sea-coal  flam? 

1  wrote  him  a  letter  of  condolence— for 
I  was  his  senior  by  a  year;-"  My  dear  fel- 

ireenf  \  tJ'  "**  y°UrSdf  >'  ^  Can  find 
greens  at  the  up-town  market :  eat  a  little 

™T-  i,youir  Ciinner;  abstain  from  heat- 
mg  drinks :  don't  put  too  much  butter  to 


SEA- COAL.  77 

your  cauliflower;  read  one  of  Jeremy  Tay. 
lor's  sermons,  and  translate  all  the  quota- 
tions at  sight ;  run  carefully  over  that  ex- 
quisite picture  of  Geo.  Dandin  in  your 
Moliere,  and  my  word  for  it,  in  a  week  you 
will  be  a  sound  man." 

He  was  too  angry  to  reply  ;  but  eighteen 
months  thereafter  I  got  a  thick,  three- 
sheeted  letter,  with  a  dove  upon  the  seal, 
telling  me  that  he  was  as  happy  as  a  king : 
he  said  he  had  married  a  good-hearted,  do- 
mestic, loving  wife,  who  was  as  lovely  as  a 
June  day,  and  that  their  baby,  not  three 
months  old,  was  as  bright  as  a  spot  of  June 
day  sunshine  on  the  grass. 

— What  a  tender,  delicate,  loving  wife 
— mused  I — such  flashing,  flaming  flirt 
must  in  the  end  make ; — the  prostitute  of 
fashion ;  the  bauble  of  fifty  hearts  idle  as 
hers;  the  shifting  make-piece  of  a  stage 
scene ;  the  actress,  now  in  peasant,  and 
now  in  princely  petticoats  !  How  it  would 
cheer  an  honest  soul  to  call  her — his ! 
What  a  culmination  of  his  heart-life ;  what 
a  rich  dream-land  to  be  realized ! 

Bah!  and  I  thrust  the  poker  into 

the  clotted  mass  of  fading  coal — just  such, 
and  so  worthless  is  the  used  heart  of  a  city 
flirt ;  just  so  the  incessant  sparkle  of  her 
life,  and  frittering  passions,  fvses  all  that 
is  sound  and  combustible,  into  black,  sooty, 
shapeless  residuum. 


78  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

When  I  marry  a  flirt.  I  will  buy  second- 
hand clothes  of  the  Jews. 

— Still — mused  I — as  the  flame  danced 
again — there  is  a  distinction  between  co- 
quetry and  flirtation. 

A  coquette  sparkles,  but  it  is  more  the 
sparkle  of  a  harmless  and  pretty  vanity, 
than  of  calculation.  It  is  the  play  of 
humors  in  the  blood,  and  not  the  play  of 
purpose  at  the  heart.  It  will  flicker  around 
a  true  soul  like  the  blaze  around  an  omelette 
au  r/nim,  leaving  the  kernel  sounder  and 
warmer. 

Coquetry,  with  all  its  pranks  and  teas- 
ings,  makes  the  spice  to  your  dinner — the 
mulled  wine  to  your  supper.  It  will  drive 
you  to  desperation,  only  to  bring  you  back 
hotter  to  the  fray.  Who  would  boast  a 
victory  that  cost  no  strategy,  and  no  care- 
ful disposition  of  the  forces  ?  Who  would 
bulletin  such  success  as  my  Uncle  Toby's, 
in  a  back-garden,  with  only  the  Corporal 
Trim  for  assailant?  But  let  a  man  be 
very  sure  that  the  city  is  worth  the  siege  ! 

Coquetry  whets  the  appetite ;  flirtation 
depraves  it.  Coquetry  is  the  thorn  that 
guards  the  rose — easily  trimmed  off  when 
once  plucked.  Flirtation  is  like  the  slime 
on  water-plants,  making  them  hard  to 
handle,  and  when  caught,  only  to  be 
cherished  in  slimy  waters. 


SEA-COAL.  79 

And  so,  with  my  eye  clinging  to  the 
flickering  blaze,  I  see  in  my  reverie,  » 
bright  one  dancing  before  me,  with  spark- 
ling, coquettish  smile,  teasing  me  with  the 
prettiest  graces  in  the  world ; — and  I  grow 
maddened  between  hope  and  fear,  and  still 
watch  with  my  whole  soul  in  my  eyes  ; 
and  see  her  features  by  and  by  relax  tc 
pity,  as  a  gleam  of  sensibility  comes  steal- 
ing over  her  spirit ; — and  then  to  a  kindly, 
feeling  regard:  presently  she  approaches, 
— a  coy  and.  doubtful  approach — and  throws 
back  the  ringlets  that  lie  over  her  cheek, 
and  lays  her  hand — a  little  bit  of  white 
hand — timidly  upon  my  strong  fingers, — 
and  turns  her  head  daintily  to  one  side, — 
and  looks  up  in  my  eyes,  as  they  rest  on 
the  playing  blaze;  and  my  fingers  close 
fast  and  passionately  over  that  little  hand, 
like  a  swift  night-cloud  shrouding  the  pale 
tips  of  Dian ; — and  my  eyes  draw  nearer 
and  nearer  to  those  blue,  laughing,  pity- 
ing, teasing  eyes,  and  my  arm  clasps  round 
that  shadowy  form, — and  my  lips  feel  a 
warm  breath — growing  warmer  and  warm- 
er  

Just  here  the  maid  comes  in,  and  throws 
upon  the  fire  a  pan-ful  of  Anthracite,  and 
my  sparkling  sea-coal  reverie  is  ended. 


If. 

ANTHRACITE. 

IT  does  not  burn  freely,  so  I  put  on  the 
blower.       Quaint     and     good-natured 
Xavier  de  Maistre*  would  have  made, 
I  dare  say,  a  pretty  epilogue  about  a  sheet- 
iron  blower ;  but  I  cannot. 

I  try  to  bring  back  the  image  that  be- 
longed to  the  lingering  bituminous  flame, 
but  with  my  eyes  on  that  dark  blower, — 
how  can  I  ? 

It  is  the  black  curtain  of  destiny  which 
drops  down  before  our  brightest  dreams. 
How  often  the  phantoms  of  joy  regale  us, 
and  dance  before  us — golden-winged,  angel- 
faced,  heart-warming,  and  make  an  Elysium 
in  which  the  dreaming  soul  bathes,  and 
feels  translated  to  another  existence  ;  and 
then — sudden  as  night,  or  a  cloud — a  word, 
a  step,  a  thought,  a  memory  will  chase  them 
away,  like  scared  deer  vanishing  over  a  gray 
horizon  of  moor-land ! 

*  Voyage  autour  de  Ma  Chambre. 


ANTHRACITE.  8t 

I  know  not  justly,  if  it  be  a  weakness  or 
a  sin  to  create  these  phantoms  that  we 
love,  and  to  group  them  into  a  paradise — 
soul-created.  But  if  it  is  a  sin,  it  is  a  sweet 
and  enchanting  sin;  and  if  it  is  a  weakness, 
it  is  a  strong  and  stirring  weakness.  If 
this  heart  is  sick  of  the  falsities  that  meet 
it  at  every  hand,  and  is  eager  to  spend 
that  power  which  nature  has  ribbed  it  with, 
on  some  object  worthy  of  its  fulness  and 
depth, — shall  it  not  feel  a  rich  relief, — nay 
more,  an  exercise  in  keeping  with  its  end, 
if  it  flow  out — strong  as  a  tempest,  wild  as 
a  rushing  river,  upon  those  ideal  creations, 
which  imagination  invents,  and  which  are 
tempered  by  our  best  sense  of  beauty, 
purity,  and  grace? 

• Useless,  do  you  say?  Aye,  it  is  as 

useless  as  the  pleasure  of  looking  hour 
upon  hour,  over  bright  landscapes ;  it  is  as 
useless  as  the  rapt  enjoyment  of  listening 
with  heart  full  and  eyes  brimming,  to 
such  music  as  the  Miserere  at  Rome;  it 
is  as  useless  as  the  ecstacy  of  kindling 
your  soul  into  fervor  and  love,  and  mad- 
ness, over  pages  that  reek  with  genius. 

There  are  indeed  base-moulded  souls 
who  know  nothing  of  this;  they  laugh; 
they  sneer;  they  even  affect  to  pity.  Just 
so  the  Huns  under  the  avenging  Attila, 
who  had  been  used  to  foul  cookery  and 


«2  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

steaks  stewed  under  their  saddles,  laughed 
brutally  at  the  spiced  banquets  of  an 
Apicius ! 

No,  this  phantom-making  is  no  sin ; 

or  if  it  be,  it  is  sinning  with  a  soul  so  full, 
so  earnest,  that  it  can  cry  to  Heaven  cheer- 
ily, and  sure  of  a  gracious  hearing — -peccavi 
— misericord*  ! 

But  my  fire  is  in  a  glow,  a  pleasant  glow, 
throwing  a  tranquil,  steady  light  to  the 
farthest  corner  of  my  garret.  How  unlike 
it  is,  to  the  flashing  play  of  the  sea-coal ! 
— unlike  as  an  unsteady,  uncertain-work- 
ing heart  to  the  true  and  earnest  constancy 
of  one  cheerful  and  right. 

After  all,  thought  I,  give  me  such  a 
heart ;  not  bent  on  vanities,  not  blazing 
too  sharp  with  sensibility,  not  throwing 
out  coquettish  jets  of  flame,  not  wavering, 
and  meaningless  with  pretended  warmth, 
but  open,  glowing  and  strong.  Its  dark 
shades  and  angles  it  may  have ;  for  what 
is  a  soul  worth  that  does  not  take  a  slaty 
tinge  from  those  griefs  that  chill  the  blood  ? 
Yet  still  the  fire  is  gleaming ;  you  see  it  in 
the  crevices ;  and  anon  it  will  give  radiance 
to  the  whole  mass. 

— It  hurts  the  eyes,  this  fire;  and  I 
draw  up  a  screen  painted  over  with  rough, 
but  graceful  figures. 

The  true  heart  wears  always  the  veil  of 


ANTHRACITE.  83 

modesty — (not  of  prudery,  which  is  a  dingy, 
iron,  repulsive  screen.)  It  will  not  allow 
itself  to  be  looked  on  too  near — it  might 
scorch ;  but  through  the  veil  you  feel  the 
warmth;  and  through  the  pretty  figures 
that  modesty  will  robe  itself  in,  you  can 
see  all  the  while  the  golden  outlines,  and 
by  that  token,  you  know  that  it  is  glowing 
and  burning  with  a  pure  and  steady  flame. 
With  such  a  heart  the  mind  fuses  natur- 
ally— a  holy  and  heated  fusion  ;  they  work 
together  like  twins-born.  With  such  a 
heart,  as  Raphael  says  to  Adam, 

Love  hath  his  seat 
In  reason,  and  is  judicious. 

But  let  me  distinguish  this  heart  from 
your  clay-cold,  lukewarm,  half-hearted  soul ; 
- — considerate,  because  ignorant ;  judicious, 
because  possessed  of  no  latent  fires  that 
need  a  curb ;  prudish,  because  with  no 
warm  blood  to  tempt.  This  sort  of  soul 
may  pass  scatheless  through  the  fiery  fur- 
nace of  life  ;  strong,  only  in  its  weakness ; 
pure,  because  of  its  failings ;  and  good, 
only  by  negation.  It  may  triumph  over 
love,  and  sin,  and  death ;  but  it  will  be  a 
triumph  of  the  beast,  which  has  neither 
passions  to  subdue,  or  energy  to  attack,  or 
hope  to  quench. 


84  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

Let  us  come  back  to  the  steady  and 
earnest  heart,  glowing  like  my  anthracite 
coal. 

I  fancy  I  see  such  a  one  now ; — the  eye 
is  deep  and  reaches  back  to  the  spirit ;  it 
is  not  the  trading  eye,  weighing  your  purse ; 
it  is  not  the  worldly  eye,  weighing  position  ; 
it  is  not  the  beastly  eye,  weighing  your 
appearance ;  it  is  the  heart's  eye,  weigh- 
ing your  soul ! 

It  is  full  of  deep,  tender,  and  earnest 
feeling.  It  is  an  eye,  which  looked  on 
once,  you  long  to  look  on  again  ;  it  is  an 
eye  which  will  haunt  your  dreams, — an 
eye  which  will  give  a  color,  in  spite  of  you, 
to  all  your  reveries.  It  is  an  eye  which 
lies  before  you  in  your  future,  like  a  star  in 
the  mariner's  heaven  ;  by  it,  unconsciously, 
and  from  force  of  deep  soul-habit,  you  take 
all  your  observations.  It  is  meek  and  quiet ; 
but  it  is  full,  as  a  spring  that  gushes  in . 
flood ;  an  Aphrodite  and  a  Mercury — a 
Vaucluse  and  a  Clitumnus. 

The  face  is  an  angel  face ;  no  matter  for 
curious  lines  of  beauty  ;  no  matter  for  pop- 
ular talk  of  prettiness  ;  no  matter  for  its 
angles,  or  its  proportions :  no  matter  for 
its  color  or  its  form — the  soul  is  there, 
illuminating  every  feature,  burnishing 
every  point,  hallowing  every  surface.  It 
-tells  of  honesty,  sincerity,  and  worth ;  it 


ANTHRACITE.  85 

tells  of  truth  and  virtue; — and  you  clasp 
the  image  to  your  heart,  as  the  received 
ideal  of  your  fondest  dreams. 

The  figure  may  be  this  or  that,  it  may  be 
tall  or  short,  it  matters  nothing, — the  heart 
is  there.  The  talk  may  be  soft  or  low,  se- 
rious or  piquant — a  free  and  honest  soul  ia 
warming  and  softening  it  all.  As  you 
speak,  it  speaks  back  again  ;  as  you  think, 
it  thinks  again — (not  in  conjunction,  but  in 
the  same  sign  of  the  Zodiac  ;)  as  you  love, 
it  loves  in  return. 

It  is  the  heart  for  a  sister,  and  happy 

is  the  man  who  can  claim  such !  The  warmtn 
that  lies  in  it  is  not  only  generous,  but  re- 
ligious, genial,  devotional,  tender,  self-sac- 
rificing, and  looking  heavenward. 

A  man  without  some  sort  of  religion,  is 
at  best  a  poor  reprobate,  the  foot-ball  of 
destiny,  with  no  tie  linking  him  to  infinity, 
and  the  wondrous  eternity  that  is  begun 
with  him  ;  but  a  woman  without  it,  is  even 
worse  —  a  flame  without  heat,  a  rainbow 
without  color,  a  flower  without  perfume  ! 

A  man  may  in  some  sort  tie  his  frail 
hopes  and  honors,  with  weak,  shifting 
ground-tackle  to  business,  or  to  the  world  ; 
but  a  woman  without  that  anchor  which 
they  call  Faith,  is  adrift,  and  a-wreck !  A 
man  may  clumsily  contrive  a  kind  of  moral 
responsibility,  out  of  his  relations  to  map* 


«6  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

kind ;  but  a  woman  in  her  comparative* 
ly  isolated  sphere,  where  affection  and  not 
purpose  is  the  controlling  motive,  can  find 
no  basis  for  any  system  of  right  action,  but 
that  of  spiritual  faith.  A  man  may  craze 
his  thought  and  his  brain,  to  trustfulness 
in  such  poor  harborage  as  Fame  and  Rep- 
utation may  stretch  before  him  ;  but  a 
woman — where  can  she  put  her  hope  in 
storms,  if  not  in  Heaven  ? 

And  that  sweet  trustfulness — that  abid- 
ing love — that  enduring  hope,  mellowing 
every  page  and  scene  of  life,  lighting  them 
with  pleasantest  radiance,  when  the  world- 
storms  break  like  an  army  with  smoking 
cannon — what  can  bestow  it  all,  but  a  holy 
soul-tie  to  what  is  above 'the  storms,  and 
to  what  is  stronger  than  an  army  with 
cannon  ?  Who  that  has  enjoyed  the  coun- 
sel and  the  love  of  a  Christian  mother,  but 
will  echo  the  thought  with  energy,  and  hal- 
low it  with  a  tear  ? et  moi,je  plcurs  ! 

My  fire  is  now  a  mass  of  red-hot  coal. 
The  whole  atmosphere  of  my  room  is 
warm.  The  heart  that  with  its  glow  can 
light  up,  and  warm  a  garret  with  loose  case- 
ments and  shattered  roof,  is  capable  of  the 
best  love — domestic  love.  I  draw  farther 
off,  and  the  images  upon  the  screen  change. 
The  warmth,  the  hour,  the  quiet,  create  a 
home  feeling ;  and  that  feeling,  quick  as 


ANTHRACITE.  87 

lightning,  has  stolen  from  the  world  of 
fancy  (a  Promethean  theft,)  a  home  ob- 
ject, about  which  my  musings  go  on  to 
drape  themselves  in  luxurious  reverie. 

There  she  sits,  by  the  corner  of  the 

fire,  in  a  neat  home  dress,  of  sober,  yet 
most  adorning  color.  A  little  bit  of  lace 
ruffle  is  gathered  about  the  neck,  by  a  blue 
ribbon;  and  the  ends  of  the  ribbon  are 
crossed  under  the  dimpling  chin,  and  are 
fastened  neatly  by  a  simple,  unpretending 
brooch — your  gift.  The  arm,  a  pretty 
taper  arm,  lies  over  the  carved  elbow  of 
the  oaken  chair ;  the  hand,  white  and  deli- 
cate, sustains  a  little  home  volume  that 
hangs  from  her  fingers.  The  forefinger  is 
between  the  leaves,  and  the  others  lie  in 
relief  upon  the  dark  embossed  cover.  She 
repeats  in  a  silver  voice  a  line  that  has 
attracted  her  fancy ;  and  you  listen — or  at 
any  rate,  you  seem  to  listen — with  your 
eyes  now  on  the  lips,  now  on  the  fore- 
head,  and  now  on  the  finger,  where  glit- 
ters like  a  star,  the  marriage  ring — little 
gold  band,  at  which  she  does  not  chafe, 
that  tells  you, — she  is  ydurs  ! 

Weak  testimonial,  if  that  were  all 

that  told  it !  The  eye,  the  voice,  the  look, 
the  heart,  tells  you  stronger  and  better, 
that  she  is  yours.  And  a  feeling  within, 
where  it  lies  you  know  not,  and  whence  it 


88  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

comes  you  know  not,  but  sweeping  over 
heart  and  brain,  like  a  fire-flood,  tells  you 
too,  that  you  are  hers !  Irremediably 
bound  as  Massinger's  Hortensio  : 

I  am  subject  to  another's  will,  and  can 
Nor  speak,  nor  do,  without  permission  from  her! 

The  fire  is  warm  as  ever ;  what  length 
of  heat  in  this  hard  burning  anthracite  ! 
It  has  scarce  sunk  yet  to  the  second  bar 
of  the  grate,  though  the  clock  upon  the 
church-tower  has  tolled  eleven. 

— Aye, — mused  I,  gaily — such  a  heart 
does  not  grow  faint,  it  does  not  spend  itself 
in  idle  puffs  of  blaze,  it  does  not  become 
chilly  with  the  passing  years  ;  but  it  gains 
and  grows  in  strength,  and  heat,  until  the 
fire  of  life  is  covered  over  with  the  ashes 
of  death.  Strong  or  hot  as  it  may  be  at 
the  first,  it  loses  nothing.  It  may  not 
indeed,  as  time  advances,  throw  out,  like 
the  coal-fire,  when  new-lit,  jets  of  blue 
sparkling  flame ;  it  may  not  continue  to 
bubble,  and  gush  like  a  fountain  at  its 
source,  but  it  will  become  a  strong  river 
of  flowing  charities. 

Clitumnus  breaks  from  under  the  Tus- 
can mountains,  almost  a  flood ;  on  a  glori- 
ous spring  day  I  leaned  down  and  tasted 
the  water,  as  it  boiled  from  its  sources ; — 
the  little  temple  of  white  marble, — the 


ANTHRACITE.  89 

mountain  sides  gray  with  olive  orchards, — 
the  white  streak  of  road, — the  tall  poplars 
of  the  river  margin  were  glistening  in  the 
bright  Italian  sunlight,  around  me.  Later, 
I  saw  it  when  it  had  become  a  river, — still 
clear  and  strong,  flowing  serenely  between 
its  prairie  banks,  on  which  the  white  cat- 
tle of  the  valley  browsed ;  and  still  farther 
down,  I  welcomed  it,  where  it  joins  the 
Arno, — flowing  slowly  under  wooded 
shores,  skirting  the  fair  Florence,  and  the 
bounteous  fields  of  the  bright  Cascino ; — 
gathering  strength  and  volume,  till  between 
Pisa  and  Leghorn, — in  sight  of  the  won- 
drous Leaning  Tower,  and  the  ship-masts 
of  the  Tuscan  port,  it  gave  its  waters  to 
its  life's  grave — the  sea. 

The  recollection  blended  sweetly  now 
with  my  musings,  over  my  garret  grate, 
and  offered  a  flowing  image,  to  bear  along 
upon  its  bosom  the  affections  that  were 
grouping  in  my  Reverie. 

It  is  a  strange  force  of  the  mind  and  of 
the  fancy,  that  can  set  the  objects  which 
are  closest  to  the  heart  far  down  the  lapse 
of  time.  Even  now,  as  the  fire  fades 
slightly,  and  sinks  slowly  towards  the  bar, 
which  is  the  dial  of  my  hours,  I  seem  to 
see  that  image  of  love  which  has  played 
about  the  fire-glow  of  my  grate — years 
hence.  It  still  covers  the  same  -  warm, 

7 


90  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

trustful,  religious  heart.  Trials  have  tried 
it ;  afflictions  have  weighed  upon  it ;  dan- 
ger has  scared  it;  and  death  is  coming 
near  to  subdue  it ;  but  still  it  is  the  same. 

The  fingers  are  thinner;  the  face  has 
lines  of  care,  and  sorrow,  crossing  each 
other  in  a  web-work,  that  makes  the  golden 
tissue  of  humanity.  But  the  heart  is  fond, 
and  steady;  it  is  the  same  dear  heart,  the 
same  self-sacrificing  heart,  warming,  like  a 
fire,  all  around  it.  Affliction  has  tempered 
joy;  and  joy  adorned  affliction.  Life  and 
all  its  troubles  have  become  distilled  into 
an  holy  incense,  rising  ever  from  your 
fireside,— an  offering  to  your  household 
gods. 

Your  dreams  of  reputation,  your  swift 
determination,  your  impulsive  pride,  your 
deep  uttered  vows  to  win  a  name,  have  all 
sobered  into  affection — have  all  blended 
into  that  glow  of  feeling,  which  finds  its 
centre,  and  hope,  and  joy  in  HOME.  From 
my  soul  I  pity  him  whose  soul  does  not 
leap  at  the  mere  utterance  of  that  name. 

A  home ! — it  is  the  bright,  blessed,  ador- 
able, phantom  which  sits  highest  on  the 
sunny  horizon  that  girdeth  Life!  When 
shall  it  be  reached?  When  shall  it  cease 
to  be  a  glittering  day-dream,  and  become 
fully  and  fairly  yours? 

It  is  not  the  house,  though  that  may 


ANTHRACITE.  91 

have  its  charms;  nor  the  fields  carefully 
tilled,  and  streaked  with  your  own  foot- 
paths ; — nor  the  trees,  though  their  shadow 
be  to  you  like  that  of  a  great  rock  in  a 
weary  land; — nor  yet  is  it  the  fireside,  with 
its  sweet  blaze-play;  —  nor  the  pictures 
which  tell  of  loved  ones,  nor  the  cherished 
books, — but  more  far  than  all  these — it  is 
the  PRESENCE.  The  Lares  of  your  wor- 
ship are  there;  the  altar  of  your  confidence 
there;  the  end  of  your  worldly  faith  is 
there;  and  adorning  it  all,  and  sending 
your  blood  in  passionate  flow,  is  the  ecstasy 
of  the  conviction,  that  there  at  least  you 
are  beloved ;  that  there  you  are  understood ; 
that  there  your  errors  will  meet  ever  with 
gentlest  forgiveness;  that  there  your 
troubles  will  be  smiled  away;  that  there 
you  may  unburden  your  soul,  fearless  of 
harsh,  unsympathizingears;  and  that  there 
you  may  be  entirely  and  joyfully — yourself ! 

There  may  be  those  of  coarse  mould — 
and  I  have  seen  such  even  in  the  disguise 
of  women — who  will  reckon  these  feelings 
puling  sentiment.  God  pity  them! — as 
they  have  need  of  pity. 

That  image  by  the  fireside,  calm, 

loving,  joyful,  is  there  still:  it  goes  not, 
however  my  spirit  tosses,  because  my 
wish,  and  every  will,  keep  it  there,  unenv 
ing. 


9»  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

The  fire  shows  through  the  screen,  yel- 
low and  warm,  as  a  harvest  sun.  It  is  in 
its  best  age,  and  that  age  is  ripeness. 

A  ripe  heart ! — now  I  know  what  Words- 
worth meant,  when  he  said, 

The  good  die  first, 

And  they  whose  hearts  are  dry  as  summer  dust, 
Burn  to  the  socket ! 

The  town  clock  is  striking  midnight. 
The  cold  of  the  night-wind  is  urging  its 
way  in  at  the  door  and  window-crevice; 
the  fire  has  sunk  almost  to  the  third  bar  of 
the  grate.  Still  my  dream  tires  not,  but 
wraps  fondly  round  that  image, — now  in 
the  far  off,  chilling  mists  of  age,  growing 
sainted.  Love  has  blended  into  reverence ; 
passion  has  subsided  into  joyous  content. 

And  what  if  age  comes,  said  I,  in  a 

new  flush  of  excitation, — what  else  proves 
the  wine  ?  What  else  gives  inner  strength, 
and  knowledge,  and  a  steady  pilot-hand,  to 
steer  your  boat  out  boldly  upon  that  shore- 
less sea,  where  the  river  of  life  is  running? 
Let  the  white  ashes  gather;  let  the  silver 
hair  lie,  where  lay  the  auburn ;  let  the  eye 
gleam  farther  back,  and  dimmer ;  it  is  but 
retreating  toward  the  pure  sky-depths,  an 
usher  to  the  land  where  you  will  follow 
dfter. 

It  is   quite   cold,   and  I  take  away  the 


ANTHRACITE,  93 

screen  altogether ;  there  is  a  little  glow  yet, 
but  presently  the  coal  slips  down  below 
the  third  bar,  with  a  rumbling  sound, — like 
that  of  coarse  gravel  falling  into  a  new- 
dug  grave. 

She  is  gone ! 

Well,  the  heart  has  burned  fairly,  evenly, 
generously,  while  there  was  mortality  to 
kindle  it;  eternity  will  surely  kindle  it 
better. 

Tears  indeed ;  but  they  are  tears  of 

thanksgiving,  of  resignation,  and  of  hope! 

And  the  eyes,  full  of  those  tears,  which 
ministering  angels  bestow,  climb  with 
quick  vision,  upon  the  angelic  ladder,  and 
open  upon  the  futurity  where  she  has 
entered,  and  upon  the  country,  which  she 
enj  oys. 

It  is  midnight,  and  the  sounds  of  life 
are  dead. 

You  are  in  the  death  chamber  of  life ; 
but  you  are  also  in  the  death  chamber  of 
care.  The  world  seems  sliding  backward ; 
and  hope  and  you  are  -  sliding  forward. 
The  clouds,  the  agonies,  the  vain  expect- 
ancies, the  braggart  noise,  the  fears,  now 
vanish  behind  the  curtain  of  the  Past,  and 
of  the  Night.  They  roll  from  your  soul 
like  a  load. 

In  the  dimness  of  what  seems  the  end- 
ing Present,  you  reach  out  your  prayerful 


94  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

hands  toward  that  boundless  Future, 
where  God's  eye  lifts  over  the  horizon, 
like  sunrise  on  the  ocean.  Do  you  recog- 
nize it  as  an  earnest  of  something  better  ? 
Aye,  if  the  heart  has  been  pure,  and 
steady, — burning  like  my  fire — it  has 
learned  it  without  seeming  to  learn. 
Faith  has  grown  upon  it,  as  the  blossom 
grows  upon  the  bud,  or  the  flower  upon 
the  slow-lifting  stalk. 

Cares  cannot  come  into  the  dream-land 
where  I  live.  They  sink  with  the  dying 
street  noise,  and  vanish  with  the  embers 
of  my  fire.  Even  Ambition,  with  its  hot 
and  shifting  flame,  is  all  gone  out.  The 
heart  in  the  dimness  of  the  fading  fire- 
glow  is  all  itself.  The  memory  of  what 
good  things  have  come  over  it  in  the 
troubled  youth-life,  bear  it  up ;  and  hope 
and  faith  bear  it  on.  There  is  no  extrava- 
gant pulse-glow ;  there  is  no  mad  fever  of 
the  brain ;  but  only  the  soul,  forgetting — 
for  once — all,  save  its  destinies  and  its 
capacities  for  good.  And  it  mounts 
higher  and  higher  on  these  wings  of 
thought ;  and  hope  burns  stronger  and 
stronger  out  of  the  ashes  of  decaying  life, 
until  the  sharp  edge  of  the  grave  seems 
but  a  foot-scraper  at  the  wicket  of  Ely- 
sium ! 

But  what  is  paper ;  and  what  are  words  ? 


ANTHRACITE.  95 

Vain  things !  The  soul  leaves  them  be- 
hind ;  the  pen  staggers  like  a  starveling 
cripple ;  and  your  heart  is  leaving  it,  a 
whole  length  of  the  life-course  behind. 
The  soul's  mortal  longings, — its  poor  baf- 
fled hopes,  are  dim  now  in  the  light  of 
those  infinite  longings,  which  spread  over 
it,  soft  and  holy  as  day-dawn.  Eternity 
has  stretched  a  corner  of  its  mantle  to- 
ward you,  and  the  breath  of  its  waving 
fringe  is  like  a  gale  of  Araby. 

A  little  rumbling,  and  a  last  plunge  of 
the  cinders  within  my  grate,  startled  me, 
and  dragged  back  my  fancy  from  my  flower 
chase,  beyond  the  Phlegethon,  to  the 
white  ashes,  that  were  now  thick  all  over 
the  darkened  coals. 

— And  this — mused  I — is  only  a  bache- 
lor-dream about  a  pure,  and  loving  heart ! 
And  to-morrow  comes  cankerous  life  again  : 

is  it  wished  for  ?  Or  if  not  wished  for, 

is  the  not  wishing,  wicked  ? 

Will  dreams  satisfy,  reach  high  as  they 
can  ?  Are  we  not  after  all.  poor  grovelling 
mortals,  tied  to  earth,  and  to  each  other  ; 
are  there  not  sympathies,  and  hopes,  and 
affections  which  can  only  find  their  issue, 
and  blessing,  in  fellow  absorption  ?  Does 
not  the  heart,  steady,  and  pure  as  it  may  be, 
and  mounting  on  soul  flights  often  as  it 
dare,  want  a  human  sympathy,  perfectly  in- 


96  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

dulged,  to  make  it  healthful  ?  Is  there  not 
a  fount  of  love  for  this  world,  as  there  is  a 
fount  of  love  for  the  other  ?  Is  there  not  a 
certain  store  of  tenderness,  cooped  in  this 
heart,  which  must,  and  will  be  lavished,  be- 
fore the  end  comes  ?  Does  it  not  plead  with 
the  judgment,  and  make  issue  with  pru- 
dence, year  after  year  ?  Does  it  not  dog 
your  steps  all  through  your  social  pilgrim- 
age, setting  up  its  claims  in  forms  fresh, 
and  odorous  as  new-blown  heath  bells,  say- 
ing,— come  away  from  the  heartless,  the 
factitious,  the  vain,  and  measure  your  heart 
not  by  its  constraints,  but  by  its  fulness, 
and  by  its  depth  ? — let  it  run,  and  be  joy- 
ous ! 

Is  there  no  demon  that  comes  to  your 
harsh  night-dreams,  like  a  taunting  fiend, 
whispering — be  satisfied  ;  keep  your  heart 
from  running  over ;  bridle  those  affections  ; 
there  is  nothing  worth  loving  ? 

Does  not  some  sweet  being  hover  over 
your  spirit  of  reverie  like  a  beckoning 
angel,  crowned  with  halo,  saying — hope  on, 
hope  ever ;  the  heart  and  I  are  kindred ; 
our  mission  will  be  fulfilled ;  nature  shall 
accomplish  its  purpose  ;  the  soul  shall  have 
its  Paradise  ? 

1  threw  myself  upon  my  bed  :  and  as 

my  thoughts  ran  over  the  definite,  sharp 
business  of  the  morrow,  my  Reverie,  and  its 


ANTHRACITE.  97 

glowing  images,  that  made  my  heart  bound, 
swept  away,  like  those  fleecy  rain  clouds  of 
August,  on  which  the  sun  paints  rainbows 
— driving  Southward,  by  a  cool,  rising  wind 
from  the  North. 

1  wonder,  —  thought  I,  as  I  dropped 

asleep, — if  a  married  man  with  his  senti- 
ment made  actual,  is  after  all,  as  happy  as 
wr  poor  fellows,  in  our  dreams  ? 


THIRD  REVERIE 


A  CIGAR  THREE  TIMES 
LIGHTED. 


(99) 


OVER  HIS  CIGAR. 


I  DO  not  believe  that  there  was  ever  an 
Aunt  Tabithy  who  could  abide  cigars. 
My  Aunt  Tabithy  hated  them  with  a 
peculiar  hatred.  She  was  not  only  insen- 
sible to  the  rich  flavor  of  a  fresh  rolling 
volume  of  smoke,  but  she  could  not  so 
much  as  tolerate  the  sight  of  the  rich  russet 
color  of  an  Havana-labelled  box.  It  put 
her  out  of  all  conceit  with  Guava  jelly,  to 
find  it  advertised  in  the  same  tongue,  and 
with  the  same  Cuban  coarseness  of  design. 

She  could  see  no  good  in  a  cigar. 

"  But  by  your  leave,  my  aunt,"  said  I  to 
her,  the  other  morning, — "there  is  very 
much  that  is  good  in  a  cigar." 

My  aunt  who  was  sweeping,  tossed  her 
head,  and  with  it,  her  curls— done  up  in 
paper. 

"  It  is  a  very  excellent  matter,"  continued 
I,  purling. 

"  It  is  dirty,"  said  my  aunt. 

(101) 


102  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

"  It  is  clean  and  sweet,"  said  I ;  "  and  a 
most  pleasant  soother  of  disturbed  feelings ; 
and  a  capital  companion ;  and  a  comforter 
"  and  I  stopped  to  puff. 

"You  know  it  is  a  filthy  abomination," 

said  my  aunt, — "  and  you  ought  to  be ," 

and  she  stopped  to  put  up  one  of  her  curls, 
which  with  the  energy  of  her  gesticulation, 
had  fallen  out  of  its  place. 

"  It  suggests  quiet  thoughts" — continued 
I, — "and  makes  a  man  meditative;  and 
gives  a  current  to  his  habits  of  contempla- 
tion,— as  I  can  show  you,"  said  I,  warming 
with  the  theme. 

My  aunt,  still  fingering  her  papers, — with 
the  pin  in  her  mouth, — gave  a  most  incred- 
ulous shrug. 

"Aunt  Tabithy  " — said  I,  and  gave  two 
or  three  violent,  consecutive  puffs, — "Aunt 
Tabithy,  I  can  make  up  such  a  series  of 
reflections  out  of  my  cigar,  as  would  do 
your  heart  good  to  listen  to  ! " 

"About  what,  pray  ? "  said  my  aunt,  con- 
temptuously. 

"About  love,"  said  I,  "  which  is  easy 
enough  lighted,  but  wants  constancy  to 
keep  it  in  a  glow ; — or  about  matrimony, 
which  has  a  great  deal  of  fire  in  the  begin- 
ning, but  it  is  a  fire  that  consumes  all  that 
feeds  the  blaze ; — or  about  life,"  continued 
I  earnestly, — "  which  at  the  first  is  fresh 


OVER  HIS  CIGAR.  103 

and  odorous,  but  ends  shortly  in  a  withered 
cinder,  that  is  fit  only  for  the  ground." 

My  aunt  who  was  forty  and  unmarried, 
finished  her  curl  with  a  flip  of  the  fingers, 
— resumed  her  hold  of  the  broom,  and 
leaned  her  chin  upon  one  end  of  it,  with 
an  expression  of  some  wonder,  some  curi- 
osity, and  a  great  deal  of  expectation. 

I  could  have  wished  my  aunt  had  been 
a  little  less  curious,  or  that  I  had  been  a 
little  less  communicative:  for-  though  it 
was  all  honestly  said  on  my  part,  yet  my 
contemplations  bore  that  vague,  shadowy, 
and  delicious  sweetness,  that  it  seemed  im- 
possible to  put  them  into  words, — least  of 
all,  at  the  bidding  of  an  old  lady,  leaning 
on  a  broom-handle. 

"  Give  me  time,  Aunt  Tabithy," — said  I, 
— "a  good  dinner,  and  after  it  a  good  cigar, 
and  I  will  serve  you  such  a  sun-shiny  sheet 
of  reverie,  all  twisted  out  of  the  smoke,  as 
will  make  your  kind  old  heart  ache  ! " 

Aunt  Tabithy,  in  utter  contempt,  either 
of  my  mention  of  the  dinner,  or  of  the 
smoke,  or  of  the  old  heart,  commenced 
sweeping  furiously. 

"  If  I  do  not  " — continued  I,  anxious  to 
appease  her, — "  if  I  do  not,  Aunt  Tabithy, 
it  shall  be  my  last  cigar ;  (Aunt  Tabithy 
stopped  sweeping)  and  all  my  tobacco 
money,  (Aurit  Tabithy  drew  near  me)  shall 


«34  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

go  to  buy  ribbons  for  my  most  respectable, 
and  worthy  Aunt  Tabithy ;  and  a  kinder 
person  could  not  have  them  ;  or  one,"  con- 
tinued I,  with  a  generous  puff,  "  whom  they 
would  more  adorn." 

My  Aunt  Xabithy  gave  me  a  half -playful, 
—half-thankful  nudge. 

It  was  in  this  way  that  our  bargain  was 
struck ;  my  part  of  it  is  already  stated.  On 
her  part,  Aunt  Tabithy  was  to  allow  me,  in 
case  of  my  success,  an  evening  cigar  un- 
molested, upon  the  front  porch,  underneath 
her  favorite. rose-tree.  It  was  concluded,  I 
say,  as  I  sat ;  the  smoke  of  my  cigar  rising 
gracefully  around  my  Aunt  Tabithy 's  curls; 
— our  right  hands  joined; — my  left  was 
holding  my  cigar,  while  in  hers,  was  tightly 
grasped — her  broom-stick. 

And  this  Reverie,  to  make  the  matter 
short,  is  what  came  of  the  contract. 


f. 

LIGHTED  WITH  A  COAL. 

I  TAKE  up  a  coal  with  the  tongs,  and 
setting  the  end  of  my  cigar  against  it, 

puff — and  puff  again ;  but  there  is  no 
smoke.  There  is  very  little  hope  of  light- 
ing from  a  dead  coal ; — no  more  hope, 
thought  I, — than  of  kindling  one's  heart 
into  flame,  by  contact  with  a  dead  heart. 

To  kindle,  there  must  be  warmth  and 
life;  and  I  sat  for  a  moment,  thinking, — 
even  before  I  lit  my  cigar, — on  the  vanity 
and  folly  of  those  poor,  purblind  fellows, 
who  go  on  puffing  for  half  a  lifetime, 
against  dead  coals.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that 
Heaven,  in  its  mercy,  has  made  their  senses 
so  obtuse,  that  they  know  not  when  their 
souls  are  in  a  flame,  or  when  they  are  dead 
I  can  imagine  none  but  the  most  moderate 
satisfaction,  in  continuing  to  love,  what 
has  got  no  ember  of  love  within  it.  The 
Italians  have  a  very  sensible  sort  of 
proverb, — amare,  e  non  essere  amato,  2 
8  (105) 


106  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

tempo perduto : — to  love,  and  not  be  loved,  is 
time  lost. 

I  take  a  kind  of  rude  pleasure  in  flinging 
down  a  coal  that  has  no  life  in  it.  And  it 
seemed  to  me, — and  may  Heaven  pardon 
the  ill-nature  that  belongs  to  the  thought, 
— that  there  would  be  much  of  the  same 
kind  of  satisfaction,  in  dashing  from  you 
a  lukewarm  creature,  covered  over  with 
the  yellow  ashes  of  old  combustion,  that 
with  ever  so  much  attention,  and  the 
nearest  approach  of  the  lips,  never  shows 
signs  of  fire.  May  Heaven  forgive  me 
again,  but  I  should  long  to  break  away, 
though  the  marriage  bonds  held  me,  and 
see  what  liveliness  was  to  be  found  else- 
where. 

I  have  seen  before  now  a  creeping  vine 
try  to  grow  up  against  a  marble  wall ;  it 
shoots  out  its  tendrils  in  all  directions, 
seeking  for  some  crevice  by  which  to  fasten 
and  to  climb ; — looking  now  above  and  now 
below, — twining  upon  itself, — reaching 
farther  up,  but  after  all,  finding  no  good 
foothold,  and  falling  away  as  if  in  despair. 
But  nature  is  not  unkind ;  twining  things 
were  made  to  twine.  The  longing  tendrils 
take  new  strength  in  the  sunshine,  ana  in 
the  showers,  and  shoot  out  toward  some 
hospitable  trunk.  They  fasten  easily  to 
the  kindly  roughness  of  the  bark,  and 


LIGHTED  WITH  A  COAL.  107 

stretch  up,  dragging  after  them  the  vine ; 
which  by  and  by,  from  the  topmost  bough, 
will  nod  its  blossoms  over  at  the  marble 
wall,  that  refused  it  succor,  as  if  it  said,— 
stand  there  in  your  pride,  cold,  white  wall  f 
we,  the  tree  and  I  are  kindred,  it  the  helper, 
and  I  the  helped ;  and  bound  fast  together, 
we  riot  in  the  sunshine,  and  in  gladness. 

The  thought  of  this  image  made  me 
search  for  a  new  coal  that  should  have 
some  brightness  in  it.  There  may  be  a 
white  ash  over  it  indeed ;  as  you  will  find 
tender  feelings  covered  with  the  mask  of 
courtesy,  or  with  the  veil  of  fear ;  but  with 
a  breath  it  all  flies  off,  and  exposes  the 
heat,  and  the  glow  that  you  are  seeking. 

At  the  first  touch,  the  delicate  edges  of 
the  cigar  crimple,  a  thin  line  of  smoke 
rises, — doubtfully  for  a  while,  and  with  a 
coy  delay  ;  but  after  a  hearty  respiration  or 
two,  it  grows  strong,  and  my  cigar  is  fairly 
lighted. 

That  first  taste  of  the  new  smoke,  and 
of  the  fragrant  leaf  is  very  grateful ;  it  has 
a  bloom  about  it,  that  you  wish  might  last. 
It  is  like  your  first  love, — fresh,  genial, 
and  rapturous.  Like  that,  it  fills  up  all  the 
craving  of  your  soul ;  and  the  light,  blue 
wreaths  of  smoke,  like  the  roseate  clouds 
that  hang  around  the  morning  of  your 
heart  life,  cut  you  off  from  the  chill  atmos- 


io8  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

phere  of  mere  worldly  companionship,  and 
make  a  gorgeous  firmament  for  your  fancy 
to  riot  in. 

I  do  not  speak  now  of  those  later,  and 
manlier  passions,  into  which  judgment 
must  be  thrusting  its  cold  tones,  and  when 
all  the  sweet  tumult  of  your  heart  has 
mellowed  into  the  sober  ripeness  of  affec- 
tion. But  J  mean  that  boyish  burning, 
which  belongs  to  every  poor  mortal's  life- 
time, and  which  bewilders  him  with  the 
thought  that  he  has  reached  the  highest 
point  of  human  joy,  before  he  has  tasted 
any  of  that  bitterness,  from  which  alone 
our  highest  human  joys  have  spring.  I 
mean  the  time,  when  you  cut  initials  with 
your  jack-knife  on  the  smooth  bark  of 
beech  trees ;  and  went  moping  under  the 
long  shadows  at  sunset ;  and  thought  Louise 
the  prettiest  name  in  the  wide  world ;  and 
picked  flowers  to  leave  at  her  door ;  and 
stole  out  at  night  to  watch  the  light  in  her 
window ;  and  read  such  novels  as  those 
about  Helen  Mar,  or  Charlotte,  to  give 
some  adequate  expression  to  your  agonized 
feelings. 

At  such  a  stage,  you  are  quite  certain 
that  you  are  deeply,  and  madly  in  love ; 
you  persist  in  the  face  of  heaven,  and  earth. 
You  would  like  to  meet  the  individual  who 
dared  to  doubt  it. 


LIGHTED  WITH  A  COAL.  ioj 

You  think  she  has  got  the  tidiest,  and 
jauntiest  little  figure  that  ever  was  seen. 
You  think  back  upon  some  time  when  in 
your  games  of  forfeit,  you  gained  a  kiss 
from  those  lips ;  and  it  seems  as  if  the 
kiss  was  hanging  on  you  yet,  and  warming 
you  all  over.  And  then  again,  it  seems  so 
strange  that  your  lips  did  really  touch  hers ! 
You  half  question  if  it  could  have  been  act- 
ually so, — and  how  you  could  have  dared  ; 
— and  you  wonder  if  you  would  have  cour- 
age to  do  the  same  thing  again  ? — and  upon 
second  thought,  are  quite  sure  you  would, 
— and  snap  your  fingers  atthe  thought  of  it. 

What  sweet  little  hats  she  does  wear ; 
and  in  the  school  room,  when  the  hat  is 
hung  up — what  curls — golden  curls,  worth 
a  hundred  Golcondas  !  How  bravely  you 
study  the  top  lines  of  the  spelling  book — 
that  your  eyes  may  run  over  the  edge  of 
the  cover,  without  the  schoolmaster's  no- 
tice, and  feast  upon  her  ! 

You  half  wish  that  somebody  would  run 
away  with  her,  as  they  did  with  Amanda, 
in  the  Children  of  the  Abbey  ; — and  then 
you  might  ride  up  on  a  splendid  black 
horse,  and  draw  a  pistol,  or  blunderbuss, 
and  shoot  the  villains,  and  carry  her  back* 
all  in  tears,  fainting,  and  languishing  upon 
your  shoulder  ; — and  have  her  father  (who 
is  Judge  of  the  County  Court,)  take  your 


lio  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

hand  in  both  of  his,  and  make  some  elo- 
quent remarks.  A  great  many  such  re-cap- 
tures you  run  over  in  your  mind,  and  think 
how  delightful  it  would  be  to  peril  your  life, 
either  by  flood,  or  fire — to  cut  off  your  arm, 
or  your  head,  or  any  such  trifle, — for  your 
dear  Louise. 

You  can  hardly  think  of  anything  more 
joyous  in  life,  than  to  live  with  her  in  some 
old  castle,  very  far  away  from  steamboats, 
and  post-offices,  and  pick  wild  geraniums 
for  her  hair,  and  read  poetry  with  her,  under 
the  shade  of  very  dark  ivy  vines.  And  you 
would  have  such  a  charming  boudoir  in  some 
corner  of  the  old  ruin,  with  a  harp  in  it,  and 
books  bound  in  gilt,  with  cupids  on  the  cover, 
and  such  a  fairy  couch,  with  the  curtains 
hung — as  you  have  seen  them  hung  in 
some  illustrated  Arabian  stories — upon  a 
pair  of  carved  doves  ! 

And  when  they  laugh  at  you  about  it, 
you  turn  it  off  perhaps  with  saying — "  it 
isn't  so  ;"  but  afterward,  in  your  chamber, 
or  under  the  tree  where  you  have  cut  her 
name,  you  take  Heaven  to  witness,  that  it 
is  so ;  and  think — what  a  cold  world  it  is, 
to  be  so  careless  about  such  holy  emotions ! 
You  perfectly  hate  a  certain  stout  boy  in  a 
green  jacket,  who  is  forever  twitting  you, 
and  calling  her  names  ;  but  when  some  old 
maiden  aunt  teases  you  in  her  kind,  gentle 


LIGHTED  WITH  A  COAL.  HI 

way,  you  bear  it  very  proudly  ;  and  with  a 
feeling  as  if  you  could  bear  a  great  deal 
more  for  her  sake.  And  when  the  minis- 
ter reads  off  marriage  announcements  in 
the  church,  you  think  how  it  will  sound 
one  of  these  days,  to  have  your  name,  and 
hers,  read  from  the  pulpit ; — and  how  the 
people  will  all  look  at  you,  and  how  pret- 
tily she  will  blush  ;  and  how  poor  little 
Dick,  who  you  know  loves  her,  but  is  afraid 
to  say  so,  will  squirm  upon  his  bench. 

— Heigho  ! — mused  I, — as  the  blue  smoke 
rolled  up  around  my  head, — these  first 
kindlings  of  the  love  that  is  in  one,  are 
very  pleasant ! — but  will  they  last  ? 

You  love  to  listen  to  the  rustle  of  her 
dress,  as  she  stirs  about  the  room.  It  is 
better  music  than  grown-up  ladies  will 
make  upon  all  their  harpsichords,  in  the 
years  that  are  to  come.  But  this,  thank 
Heaven,  you  do  not  know. 

You  think  you  can  trace  her  foot-mark, 
on  your  way  to  the  school ; — and  what  a 
dear  little  foot-mark  it  is  !  And  from  that 
single  point,  if  she  be  out  of  your  sight  for 
days,  you  conjure  up  the  whole  image, — 
the  elastic,  lithe  little  figure, — the  springy 
step, — the  dotted  muslin  so  light,  and  flow- 
ing,— the  silk  kerchief,  with  its  most  tempt- 
ing fringe  playing  upon  the  clear  white  of 
her  throat, — how  you  envy  that  fringe! 


112  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

And  her  chin  is  as  round  as  a  peach — and 
the  lips — such  lips  ! — and  you  sigh,  and 
hang  your  head;  and  wonder  when  you 
shall  see  her  again ! 

You  would  like  to  write  her  a  letter ;  but 
then  people  would  talk  so  coldly  about  it ; 
and  beside  you  are  not  quite  sure  you 
could  write  such  billets  as  Thaddeus  of 
Warsaw  used  to  write ;  and  anything  less 
warm  or  elegant,  would  not  do  at  all.  You 
talk  about  this  one,  or  that  one,  whom  they 
call  pretty,  in  the  coolest  way  in  the  world ; 
you  see  very  little  of  their  prettiness ;  they 
are  good  girls  to  be  sure ;  and  you  hope 
they  will  get  good  husbands  some  day  or 
other :  but  it  is  not  a  matter  that  concerns 
you  very  much.  They  do  not  live  in  your 
world  of  romance ;  they  are  not  the  angels 
of  that  sky  which  your  heart  makes  rosy, 
and  to  which  I  have  likened  the  blue  waves 
of  this  rolling  smoke. 

You  can  even  joke  as  you  talk  of  others ; 
you  can  smile, — as  you  think — very  gra- 
ciously ;  you  can  say  laughingly  that  you 
are  deeply  in  love  with  them,  and  think  it 
a  most  capital  joke ;  you  can  touch  their 
hands,  or  steal  a  kiss  from  them  in  your 
games,  most  imperturbably : — they  are  very 
dead  coals. 

But  the  live  one  is  very  lively.  When 
you  take  the  name  on  your  lip,  it  seems 


LIGHTED  WITH  A  COAL.  113 

somehow,  to  be  made  of  different  materials 
from  the  rest;  you  cannot  half  so  easily 
separate  it  into  letters  ;  write  it,  indeed, 
you  can  ;  for  you  have  had  practice, — very 
much  private  practice  on  odd  scraps  of 
paper,  and  on  the  fly-leaves  of  geographies, 
and  of  your  natural  philosophy.  You 
know  perfectly  well  how  it  looks ;  it  seems 
to  be  written,  indeed,  somewhere  behind 
your  eyes  ;  and  in  such  happy  position  with 
respect  to  the  optic  nerve,  that  you  see  it 
all  the  time,  though  you  are  looking  in  an 
opposite  direction ;  and  so  distinctly,  that 
you  have  great  fears  lest  people  looking 
into  your  eyes,  should  see  it  too  ! 

For  all  this,  it  is  a  far  more  delicate 
name  to  handle  than  most  that  you  know 
of.  Though  it  is  very  cool,  and  pleasant 
on  the  brain,  it  is  very  hot,  and  difficult  to 
manage  on  the  lip.  It  is  not,  as  your 
schoolmaster  would  say, — a  name,  so  much 
as  it  is  an  idea ; — not  a  noun,  but  a  verb, — an 
active,  and  transitive  verb  ;  and  yet  a  most 
irregular  verb,  wanting  the  passive  voice. 

It  is  something  against  your  school- 
master's doctrine,  to  find  warmth  in  the 
moonlight ;  but  with  that  soft  hand — it  is 
very  soft — lying  within  your  arm,  there  is 
a  great  deal  of  warmth,  whatever  the 
philosophers  may  say,  even  in  pale  moon- 
light. The  beams,  too,  breed  sympa- 


Ii4  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

thies,  very  close-running  sympathies, — not 
talked  about  in  the  chapters  on  optics,  and 
altogether  too  fine  for  language.  And 
under  their  influence,  you  retain  the  little 
hand,  that  you  had  not  dared  retain  so  long 
before  ;  and  her  struggle  to  recover  it, — 
if  indeed  it  be  a  struggle, — is  infinitely 
less  than  it  was ; — nay,  it  is  a  kind  of 
struggle,  not  so  much  against  you,  as 
between  gladness  and  modesty.  It  makes 
you  as  bold  as  a  lion ;  and  the  feeble  hand, 
like  a  poor  lamb  in  the  lion's  clutch,  is 
powerless,  and  very  meek ; — and  failing  of 
escape,  it  will  sue  for  gentle  treatment ;  and 
will  meet  your  warm  promise,  with  a  kind 
of  grateful  pressure,  that  is  but  half  ac- 
knowledged, by  the  hand  that  makes  it. 

My  cigar  is  burning  with  wondrous  free- 
ness  ;  and  from  the  smoke  flash  forth  images 
bright  and  quick  as  lightning — with  no 
thunder,  but  the  thunder  of  the  pulse.  But 
will  it  all  last?  Damp  will  deaden  the  fire 
of  a  cigar;  and  there  are  hellish  damps — 
alas,  too  many, — that  will  deaden  the  early 
blazing  of  the  heart. 

She  is  pretty, — growing  prettier  to  your 
eye,  the  more  you  look  upon  her,  and  pret- 
tier to  your  ear,  the  more  you  listen  to  her. 
But  you  wonder  who  the  tall  boy  was,  who 
you  saw  walking  with  her,  two  days  ago  ? 
He  was  not  a  bad-looking  boy ;  on  the  con- 


LIGHTED   WITH  A  COAL.  115 

trary,  you  think, — (with  a  grit  of  your  teeth) 
— that  he  was  infernally  handsome !  You 
look  at  him  very  shyly,  and  very  closely, 
when  you  pass  him ;  and  turn  to  see  how 
he  walks,  and  to  measure  his  shoulders, 
and  are  quite  disgusted  with  the  very 
modest,  and  gentlemanly  way,  with  which 
he  carries  himself.  You  think  you  would 
like  to  have  a  fisticuff  with  him,  if  you 
were  only  sure  of  having  the  best  of  it. 
You  sound  the  neighborhood  coyly,  to 
find  out  who  the  strange  boy  is ;  and  are 
half  ashamed  of  yourself  for  doing  it. 

You  gather  a  magnificent  bouquet  to 
send  her,  and  tie  it  with  a  green  ribbon, 
and  love  knot, — and  get  a  little  rose-bud  in 
acknowledgment.  That  day,  you  pass  the 
tall-boy  with  a  very  patronizing  look  ;  and 
wonder  if  he  would  not  like  to  have  a  sail 
in  your  boat  ? 

But  by  and  by,  you  find  the  tall  boy 
walking  with  her  again ;  and  she  looks 
sideways  at  him,  and  with  a  kind  of  grown 
up  air,  that  makes  you  feel  very  boylike, 
and  humble,  and  furious.  And  you  look 
daggers  at  him  when  you  pass  ;  and  touch 
your  cap  to  her,  with  quite  uncommon  dig- 
nity ; — and  wonder  if  she  is  not  sorry,  and 
does  not  feel  very  badly,  to  have  got  suck 
a  look  from  you  ? 

On  some  other  day,  however,  you  meet 


ii6  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

her  alone ;  and  the  sight  of  her  makes 
your  face  wear  a  genial,  sunny  air  ;  and  you 
talk  a  little  sadly  about  your  fears  and  your 
jealousies  ;  she  seems  a  little  sad,  and  a  lit- 
tle glad,  together ; — and  is  sorry  she  has 
made  you  feel  badly, — and.  you  are  sorry 
too.  And  with  this  pleasant  twin  sorrow, 
you  are  knit  together  again — closer  than 
ever.  That  one  little  tear  of  hers  has  been 
worth  more  to  you  than  a  thousand  smiles. 
Now  you  love  her  madly ;  you  could  swear 
it — swear  it  to  her,  or  swear  it  to  the  uni- 
verse. You  even  say  as  much  to  some  kind 
old  friend  at  night-fall ;  but  your  mention 
of  her,  js  tremulous  and  joyful, — with  a  kind 
of  bound  in  your  speech,  as  if  the  heart 
worked  too  quick  for  the  tongue ;  and  as  if 
the  lips  were  ashamed  to  be  passing  over 
such  secrets  of  the  soul,  to  the  mere  sense 
of  hearing.  At  this  stage,  you  cannot  trust 
yourself  to  speak  her  praises;  or  if  you 
venture,  the  expletives  fly  away  with  your 
thought,  before  you  can  chain  it  into  lan- 
guage ;  and  your  speech,  at  your  best 
endeavor,  is  but  a  succession  of  broken  su- 
perlatives, that  you  are  ashamed  of.  You 
strain  for  language  that  will  scald  the 
thought  of  her ;  but  hot  as  you  can  make 
it,  it  falls  back  upon  your  heated  fancy, 
like  a  cold  shower. 

Heat  so  intense  as  this  consumes  very 


LIGHTED  WITH  A  COAL.  117 

fast ;  and  the  matter  it  feeds  fastest  on,  is — 
judgment ;  and  with  judgment  gone,  there 
is  room  for  jealousy  to  creep  in.  You 
grow  petulant  at  another  sight  of  that  tall- 
boy ;  and  the  one  tear  which  cured  your  first 
petulance,  will  not  cure  it  now.  You  let  a 
little  of  your  fever  break  out  in  speech — a 
speech  which  you  go  home  to  mourn  over. 
But  she  knows  nothing  of  the  mourning, 
while  she  knows  very  much  of  the  anger. 
Vain  tears  are  very  apt  to  breed  pride ;  and 
when  you  go  again  with  your  petulance, 
you  will  find  your  rosy-lipped  girl  taking 
her  first  studies  in  dignity. 

You  will  stay  away,  you  say  ; — poor  fool, 
you  are  feeding  on  what  your  disease  loves 
best !  You  wonder  if  she  is  not  sighing 
for  your  return, — and  if  your  name  is  not 
running  in  her  thought — and  if  tears  of 
regret  are  not  moistening  those  sweet  eyes. 

And  wondering  thus,  you  stroll 

moodily,  and  hopefully  toward  her  father's 
home ;  you  pass  the  door  once — twice ;  you 
loiter  under  the  shade  of  an  old  tree,  where 
you  have  sometimes  bid  her  adieu ;  your 
old  fondness  is  struggling  with  your  pride, 
and  has  almost  made  the  mastery ;  but  in 
the  very  moment  of  victory,  you  see  yon- 
der your  hated  rival,  and  beside  him,  look- 
ing very  gleeful,  and  happy — :your  perfidi 
ous  Louise. 


ji8  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

How  quick  you  throw  off  the  marks  of 
your  struggle,  and  put  on  the  boldest  air  of 
boyhood ;  and  what  a  dexterous  handling 
to  your  knife,  and  a  wonderful  keenness 
to  the  edge,  as  you  cut  away  from  the  bark 
of  the  beech  tree,  all  trace  of  her  name ! 
Still  there  is  a  little  silent  relenting,  and  a 
few  tears  at  night,  and  a  little  tremor  of 
the  hand,  as  you  tear  out — the  next  day, — 
every  fly-leaf  that  bears  her  name.  But  at 
sight  of  your  rival, — looking  so  jaunty,  and 
in  such  capital  spirits,  you  put  on  the  proud 
man  again.  You  may  meet  her,  but  you 
say  nothing  of  your  struggles  ; — oh  no,  not 
one  word  of  that ! — but  you  talk  with 
amazing  rapidity  about  your  games,  or 
what  not ;  and  you  never — never  give  her 
another  peep  into  your  boyish  heart ! 

For  a  week,  you  do  not  see  her, — nor  for 
a  month, — nor  two  months — nor  three. 

— Puff — puff  once  more ;  there  is  only  a 
little  nauseous  smoke ;  and  now — my  cigar 
is  gone  out  altogether.  I  must  light  again. 


II. 

WITH  A  WISP  OF  PAPER. 

THERE  are  those  who  throw  away  a 
cigar,  when  once  gone  out ;  they  must 
needs  have  plenty  more.  But  nobody 
that  I  ever  heard  of,  keeps  a  cedar  box  of 
hearts,  labelled  at  Havanna.  Alas,  there 
is  but  one  to  light ! 

But  can  a  heart  once  lit,  be  lighted  again  ? 
Authority  on  this  point  is  worth  something; 
yet  it  should  be  impartial  authority.  I 
should  be  loth  to  take  in  evidence,  for  the 
fact, — however  it  might  tally  with  my  hope, 
the  affidavit  of  some  rakish  old  widower, 
who  had  cast  his  weeds,  before  the  grass 
had  started  on  the  mound  of  his  affliction ; 
and  I  should  be  as  slow  to  take,  in  way  of 
rebutting  testimony,  the  oath  of  any  sweet 
young  girl,  just  becoming  conscious  of  her 
heart's  existence — by  its  loss. 

Very  much,  it  seems  to  me,  depends  upon 
the  quality  of  the  fire :  and  I  can  easily 


120  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

conceive  of  one  so  pure,  so  constant,  so 
exhausting,  that  if  it  were  once  gone  out, 
whether  in  the  chills  of  death,  or  under  the 
blasts  of  pitiless  fortune,  there  would  be 
no  rekindling ; — simply  because  there  would 
be  nothing  left  to  kindle.  And  I  can  im- 
agine too  a  fire  so  earnest,  and  so  true,  that 
whatever  malice  might  urge,  or  a  devilish 
ingenuity  devise,  there  could  no  other  be 
found,  high  or  low,  far  or  nearf,  which  should 
not  so  contrast  with  the  first,  as  to  make  it 
seem  cold  as  ice. 

I  remember  in  an  old  play  of  Davenport's, 
the  hero  is  led  to  doubt  his  mistress  ;  he  is 
worked  upon  by  slanders,  to  quit  her  alto- 
gether,— though  he  has  loved,  and  does  still 
love  passionately.  She  bids  him  adieu, 
with  large  tears  dropping  from  her  eyes, 
(and  I  lay  down  my  cigar,  to  recite  it  aloud, 
fancying  all  the  while,  with  a  varlet  impu- 
dence, that  some  Abstemia  is  repeating  it 
to  me) — 

Farewell,  Lorenzo, 

Whom  my  soul  doth  love ;  if  you  ever  marry, 
May  you  meet  a  good  wife ;  so  good,  that  you 
May  not  suspect  her,  nor  may  she  be  worthy 
Of  your  suspicion  :  and  if  you  hear  hereafter 
That  I  am  dead,  inquire  but  my  last  words, 
And  you  shall  know  that  to  the  last  I  loved  you. 
And  when  you  walk  forth  with  your  second  choice, 
Into  the  pleasant  fields,  and  by  chance  talk  of  me, 
Imagine  that  yousee  me  thin,  and  pale, 
Strewing  your  oath  with  flowers  ! 


WITH  A  WISP  OF  PAPER.  i« 

Poor  Abstemia !  Lorenzo  never  could 

find  such  another, — there  never  could  be 
such  another,  for  such  Lorenzo. 

To  blaze  anew,  it  is  essential  that  the  old 
fire  be  utterly  gone  ;  and  can  any  truly- 
lighted  soul  ever  grow  cold,  except  the 
grave  cover  it  ?  The  poets  all  say  no : 
Othello,  had  he  lived  a  thousand  years, 
would  not  have  loved  again  ; — nor  Desde- 
mona, — nor  Andromache, — nor  Medea, — 
nor  Ulysses, — nor  Hamlet.  But  in  the  cool 
wreaths  of  the  pleasant  smoke,  let  us  see 
what  truth  is  in  the  poets. 

— What  is  love, — mused  I, — at  the  first, 
but  a  mere  fancy  ?  There  is  a  prettiness, 
that  your  soul  cleaves  to,  as  your  eye  to  a 
pleasant  flower,  or  your  ear  to  a  soft  mel- 
ody. Presently,  admiration  comes  in,  as 
a  sort  of  balance-wheel  for  the  eccentric 
revolutions  of  your  fancy ;  and  your  ad- 
miration is  touched  off  with  such  neat  qual- 
ity as  respect.  Too  much  of  this  indeed, 
they  say,  deadens  the  fancy  ;  and  so  retards 
the  action  of  the  heart  machinery.  But 
with  a  proper  modicum  to  serve  as  a  stock, 
devotion  is  grafted  in  ;  and  then,  by  an 
agreeable  and  confused  mingling,  all  these 
qualities,  and  affections  of  the  soul,  become 
transfused  into  that  vital  feeling,  called 
Love. 

Your  heart  seems  to  have  gone  over  to 

9 


i»2  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

another  and  better  counterpart  of  your  hu- 
manity; what  is  left  of  you,  seems  the 
mere  husk  of  some  kernel  that  has  been 
stolen.  It  is  not  an  emotion  of  yours, 
which  is  making  very  easy  voyages  towards 
another  soul, — that  may  be  shortened,  or 
lengthened,  at  will ;  but  it  is  a  passion,  that 
is  only  yours,  because  it  is  there  ;  the  more 
it  lodges  there,  the  more  keenly  you  feel  it 
to  be  yours. 

The  qualities  that  feed  this  passion,  may 
indeed  belong  to  you  ;  but  they  never  gave 
birth  to  such  an  one  before,  simply  because 
there  was  no  place  in  which  it  could  grow. 
Nature  is  very  provident  in  these  matters. 
The  chrysalis  does  not  burst,  until  there  is 
a  wing  to  help  the  gauze-fly  upward.  The 
shell  does  not  break,  until  the  bird  can 
breathe  ;  nor  does  the  swallow  quit  its  nest, 
until  its  wings  are  tipped  with  the  airy 
oars. 

This  passion  of  love  is  strong,  just  in 
proportion  as  the  atmosphere  it  finds,  is 
tender  of  its  life.  Let  that  atmosphere 
change  into  too  great  coldness,  and  the  pas- 
sion becomes  a  wreck, — not  yours,  because 
it  is  not  worth  your  having  ; — nor  vital,  be- 
cause it  has  lost  the  soil  where  it  grew. 
But  is  it  not  laying  the  reproach  in  a  high 
quarter,  to  say  that  those  qualities  of  the 
heart  which  begot  this  passion,  are  ex- 


WITH  A  WISP  OF  PAPER.  125 

hausted,  and  will  not  thenceforth  germinate 
through  all  of  your  life-time  ? 

Take  away  the  worm-eaten  frame 

from  your  arbor  plant,  and  the  wrenched 
arms  of  the  despoiled  climber  will  not  at 
the  first,  touch  any  new  trellis;  they  can- 
not in  a  day,  change  the  habit  of  a  year. 
But  let  the  new  support  stand  firmly,  and 
the  needy  tendrils  will  presently  lay  hold 
upon  the  stranger !  and  your  plant  will  re- 
gain its  pride  and  pomp; — cherishing  per- 
haps in  its  bent  figure,  a  memento  of  the 
Old ;  but  in  its  more  earnest,  and  abounding 
life,  mindful  only  of  its  sweet  dependance 
on  the  New. 

Let  the  Poets  say  what  they  will,  these 
affections  of  ours  are  not  blind,  stupid 
creatures,  to  starve  under  polar  snows, 
when  the  very  breezes  of  Heaven  are  the 
appointed  messengers  to  guide  them  toward 
warmth  and  sunshine ! 

And  with  a  little  suddenness  of  man- 
ner, I  tear  off  a  wisp  of  paper,  and  holding; 
it  in  the  blaze  of  my  lamp,  re-light  my  cigar. 
It  does  not  burn  so  easily  perhaps  as  at 
first: — it  wants  warming,  before  it  will 
catch ;  but  presently,  it  is  in  a  broad,  full 
glow,  that  throws  light  into  the  corners  of 
my  room. 

Just  so, — thought  I, — the  love  of 

youth,  which  succeeds  the  crackling  blaze 


124  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

of  boyhood,  makes  a  broader  flame,  though 
it  may  not  be  so  easily  kindled.  A  mere 
dainty  step,  or  a  curling  lock,  or  a  soft  blue 
eye  are  not  enough;  but  in  her,  who  has 
quickened  the  new  blaze,  there  is  a  blending 
of  all  these,  with  a  certain  sweetness  of 
soul,  that  finds  expression  in  whatever 
feature  or  motion  you  look  upon.  Her 
charms  steal  over  you  gently,  and  almost 
imperceptibly.  You  think  that  she  is  a 
pleasant  companion — nothing  more:  and 
you  find  the  opinion  strongly  confirmed 
day  by  day; — so  well  confirmed,  indeed, 
that  you  begin  to  wonder — why  it  is,  that 
she  is  such  a  delightful  companion  ?  It 
cannot  be  her  eye,  for  you  have  seen  eyes 
almost  as  pretty  as  Nelly's;  nor  can  it  be 
her  mouth,  though  Nelly's  mouth  is  cer- 
tainly very  sweet.  And  you  keep  study- 
ing what  on  earth  it  can  be  that  makes  you 
so  earnest  to  be  near  her,  or  to  listen  to 
her  voice.  The  study  is  pleasant.  You 
do  not  know  any  study  that  is  more  so ;  or 
which  you  accomplish  with  less  mental 
fatigue. 

Upon  a  sudden,  some  fine  day,  when  the 
air  is  balmy,  and  the  recollection  of  Nelly's 
voice  and  manner,  more  balmy  still,  you 
wonder — if  you  are  in  love  ?  When  a  man 
has  such  a  wonder,  he  is  either  very  near 
love,  or  he  is  very  far  away  from  it ;  it  is  a 


WITH  A   WISP  OF  PAPER.  125 

wonder,  that  is  either  suggested  by  his 
hope,  or  by  that  entanglement  of  feeling 
which  blunts  all  his  perceptions. 

But  if  not  in  love,  you  have  at  least  a 
strong  fancy, — so  strong,  that  you  tell  your 
friends  carelessly,  that  she  is  a  nice  girl, — 
nay,  a  beautiful  girl ;  and  if  your  educa- 
tion has  been  bad,  you  strengthen  the 
epithet  on  your  own  tongue,  with  a  very 
wicked  expletive  : — of  which  the  mildest 
form  would  be — "deuced  fine  girl!"  Pres- 
ently, however,  you  get  beyond  this;  and 
vour  companionship,  and  your  wonder, -re- 
lapse into  a  constant,  quiet  habit  of  un- 
mistakeable  love: — not  impulsive,  quick, 
and  fiery,  like  the  first ;  but  mature  and 
calm.  It  is  as  if  it  were  born  with  your 
soul,  and  the  recognition  of  it  was  rather 
an  old  remembrance,  than  a  fresh  passion. 
It  does  not  seek  to  gratify  its  exuberance, 
and  force,  with  such  relief  as  night-sere- 
nades, or  any  Jacques-like  meditations  in 
the  forest ;  but  it  is  a  quiet,  still  joy,  that 
floats  on  your  hope,  into  the  years  to  come, 
—making  the  prospect  all  sunny  and  joyful. 

It  is  a  kind  of  oil  and  balm  for  whatever 
was  stormy,  or  harmful :  it  gives  a  perma- 
nence to  the  smile  of  existence.  It  does 
not  make  the  sea  of  your  life  turbulent 
with  high  emotions,  as  if  a  strong  wind 
were  blowing ; — but  it  is  as  if  an  Aphrodite 


1*6  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

had  broken  on  the  surface,  and  the  ripples 
were  spreading  with  a  sweet,  low  sound, 
and  widening  far  out  to  the  very  shores  of 
time. 

There  is  no  need  now,  as  with  the  boy, 
to  bolster  up  your  feelings  with  extrava- 
gant vows :  even  should  you  try  this  in  her 
presence,  the  words  are  lacking  to  put 
such  vows  in.  So  soon  as  you  reach  them, 
they  fail  you  :  and  the  oath  only  quivers 
on  the  lip,  or  tells  its  story  by  a  pressure 
of.  the  fingers.  You  wear  a  brusque, 
pleasant  air  with  your  acquaintances,  and 
hint — with  a  sly  look — at  possible  changes 
in  your  circumstances.  Of  an  evening,  you 
are  kind  to  the  most  unattractive  of  the 
wall -flowers, — if  only  your  Nelly  is  away  ; 
and  you  have  a  sudden  charity  for  street 
beggars,  with  pale  children.  You  catch 
yourself  taking  a  step  in  one  of  the  new 
"Polkas,  upon  a  country  walk :  and  wonder 
immensely  at  the  number  of  bright  days 
which  succeed  each  other,  without  leaving 
a  single  stormy  gap,  for  your  old  melan- 
choly moods.  Even  the  chambermaids  at 
your  hotel,  never  did  their  duty  one  half 
so  well ;  and  as  for  your  man  Tom,  he  is 
become  a  perfect  pattern  of  a  fellow. 

My  cigar  is  in  a  fine  glow ;  but  it  has 
gone  out  once,  and  it  may  go  out  again. 

You  begin  to  talk  of  marriage  ;  but 


WITH  A  WISP  OF  PAPER.  137 

some  obstinate  Papa,  or  guardian  uncle 
thinks  that  it  will  never  do; — that  it  is 
quite  too  soon,  or  that  Nelly  is  a  mere  girl. 
Or  some  of  your  wild  oats, — quite  forgot- 
ten by  yourself, — shoot  up  on  the  vision  of 
a  staid  Mamma,  and  throw  a  very  damp 
shadow  on  your  character.  Or  the  old 
lady  has  an  ambition  of  another  sort, 
which  you,  a  simple,  earnest,  plodding, 
bachelor,  can  never  gratify ; — being  of  only 
passable  appearance,  and  unschooled  in 
the  fashions  of  the  world,  you  will  be 
eternally  rubbing  the  elbows  of  the  old 
lady's  pride. 

All  this  will  be  strangely  afflictive  to  one 
who  has  been  living  for  quite  a  number  of 
weeks,  or  months,  in  a  pleasant  dream-land, 
where  there  were  no  five  per  cents,  or  repu- 
tations, but  only  a  very  full,  and  delirious 
flow  of  feeling.  What  care  you  for  any 
position,  except  a  position  near  the  being 
that  you  love  ?  What  wealth  do  you  prize, 
except  a  wealth  of  heart,  that  shall  never 
know  diminution ; — or  for  reputation,  ex- 
cept that  of  truth,  and  of  honor?  How 
hard  it  would  break  upon  these  pleasant 
idealities,  to  have  a  weazen-faced  old  guard- 
ian, set  his  arm  in  yours,  and  tell  you  how 
tenderly  he  has  at  heart  the  happiness  of 
his  niece; — and  reason  with  you  about 
your  very  small,  and  sparse  dividends,  and 


j»8  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

your  limited  business ; — and  caution  you,— 
for  he  has  a  lively  regard  for  your  interests, 
— about  continuing  your  addresses  ? 

The  kind  old  curmudgeon  ! 

Your  man  Tom  has  grown  suddenly  a 
very  stupid  fellow ;  and  all  your  charity  for 
withered  wall-flowers,  is  gone.  Perhaps  in 
your  wrath  the  suspicion  comes  over  you, 
that  she  too  wishes  you  were  something 
higher,  or  more  famous,  or  richer,  or  any- 
thing but  what  you  are ! — a  very  dangerous 
suspicion  :  for  no  man  with  any  true  nobil- 
ity of  soul,  can  ever  make  his  heart  the 
slave  of  another's  condescension. 

But  no, — you  will  not,  you  cannot  believe 
this  of  Nelly; — that  face  of  hers  is  too 
mild  and  gracious  ;  and  her  manner,  as  she 
takes  your  hand,  after  your  heart  is  made 
sad,  and  turns  away  those  rich  blue  eyes, — 
shadowed  more  deeply  than  ever  by  the 
long-  and  moistened  fringe ; — and  the  ex- 
quisite softness,  and  meaning  of  the  pres- 
sure of  those  little  fingers  ; — and  the  low, 
half  sob ;  and  the  heaving  of  that  bosom, 
in  its  struggles  between  love,  and  duty, — 
all  forbid.  Nelly,  you  could  swear,  is  ten- 
derly indulgent,  like  the  fond  creature  that 
she  is,  toward  all  your  short-comings  ;  and 
would  not  barter  your  strong  love,  and 
your  honest  heart,  for  the  greatest  magnate 
in  the  land. 


WITH  A  WISP  OF  PAPER.  129 

What  a  spur  to  effort  is  the  confiding 
love  of  a  true-hearted  woman  !  That  last 
fond  look  of  hers,  hopeful,  and  encouraging, 
has  more  power  within  it  to  nerve  your 
soul  to  high  deeds,  than  all  the  admonitions 
of  all  your  tutors.  Your  heart,  beating 
large  with  hope,  quickens  the  flow  upon 
the  brain  ;  and  you  make  wild  vows  to  win 
greatness.  But  alas,  this  is  a  great  world — 
very  full,  and  very  rough  ; 


all  up-hill  work  when  we  would  do  ; 


All  down-hill,  when  we  suffer. 

Hard,  withering  toil  only  can  achieve  a 
name ;  and  long  days,  and  months,  and 
years,  must  be  passed  in  the  chase  of  that 
bubble — reputation  ;  which  when  once 
grasped,  breaks  in  your  eager  clutch,  into 
a  hundred  lesser  bubbles,  that  soar  above 
you  still ! 

A  clandestine  meeting  from  time  to 
time,  and  a  note  or  two  tenderly  written, 
keep  up  the  blaze  in  your  heart.  But 
presently,  the  lynx-eyed  old  guardian — so 
tender  of  your  interests,  and  hers, — forbids 
even  this  irregular  and  unsatisfying  corre- 
spondence. Now  you  can  feed  yourself 
only  on  stray  glimpses  of  her  figure — as 
full  of  sprightliness  and  grace,  as  ever; 
and  that  beaming  face,  you  are  half  sorry 

*  Festus. 


-J30  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

to  see  from  time  to  time, — still  beautiful. 
You  struggle  with  your  moods  of  melan- 
choly, and  wear  bright  looks  yourself — 
bright  to  her,  and  very  bright  to  the  eye 
of  the  old  curmudgeon,  who  has  snatched 
your  heart  away.  It  will  never  do  to  show 
your  weakness  to  a  man. 

At  length,  on  some  pleasant  morning, 
you  learn  that  she  is  gone, — too  far  away 
to  be  seen,  too  closely  guarded  to  be 
reached.  For  a  while  you  throw  down 
your  books,  and  abandon  your  toil  in 
despair, —  thinking  very  bitter  thoughts, 
and  making  very  helpless  resolves. 

My  cigar  is  still  burning ;  but  it  will 
require  constant  and  strong  respiration,  to 
keep  it  in  a  glow. 

A  letter  or  two  dispatched  at  random, 
relieve  the  excess  of  your  fever  ;  until  with 
practice,  these  random  letters  have  even 
less  heat  in  them,  than  the  heat  of  your 
study,  or  of  your  business.  Grief — thank 
God ! — is  not  so  progressive,  or  so  cumu- 
lative as  joy.  For  a  time,  there  is  a  pleas- 
ure in  the  mood,  with  which  you  recal  your 
broken  hopes;  and  with  which  you  self- 
ishly link  hers  to  the  shattered  wreck ;  but 
absence,  and  ignorance  tame  the  point  of 
your  woe.  You  call  up  the  image  of  Nelly, 
adorning  other  and  distant  scenes.  You 
see  the  tearful  smile  give  place  to  a  blithe- 
some cheer ;  and  the  thought  of  you  that 


WITH  A  WISP  OF  PAPER.  131 

snaded  her  fair  face  so  long,  fades  under 
the  sunshine  of  gaiety  ;  or  at  best,  it  only 
seems  to  cross  that  white  forehead,  like  a 
playful  shadow,  that  a  fleecy  cloud-rem- 
nant will  fling  upon  a  sunny  lawn. 

As  for  you,  the  world  with  its  whirl  and 
roar,  is  deafening  the  sweet,  distant  notes, 
that  come  up  through  old,  choked  channels 
of  the  affections.  Life  is  calling  for 
earnestness,  and  not  for  regrets.  So  the 
months,  and  the  years  slip  by  ;  your  bache- 
lor habit  grows  easy  and  light  with  wear- 
ing ;  you  have  mourned  enough,  to  smile 
at  the  violent  mourning  of  others ;  and 
you  have  enjoyed  enough,  to  sigh  over 
their  little  eddies  of  delight.  Dark  shades, 
and  delicious  streaks  of  crimson  and  gold 
color  lie  upon  your  life.  Your  heart  with 
all  its  weight  of  ashes,  can  yet  sparkle  at 
the  sound  of  a  fairy  step ;  and  your  face 
can  yet  open  into  a  round  of  joyous  smiles, 
— that  are  almost  hopes, — in  the  presence 
of  some  bright-eyed  girl. 

But  amid  this,  there  will  float  over  you 
from  time  to  time,  a  midnight  trance,  in 
which  you  will  hear  again  with  a  thirsty 
ear,  the  witching  melody  of  the  days  that 
are  gone  ;  and  you  will  wake  from  it  with 
a  shudder  into  the  cold  resolves  of  your 
lonely,  and  manly  life.  But  the  shudder 
passes  as  easy  as  night  from  morning. 
Tearful  regrets,  and  memories  that  touch 


132  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

to  the  quick,  are  dull  weapons  to  break 
through  the  panoply  of  your  seared,  eager, 
and  ambitious  manhood.  They  only  ven- 
ture out  like  timid,  white-winged  flies,  when 
night  is  come  ;  and  at  the  first  glimpse  of 
the  dawn,  they  shrivel  up,  and  lie  without 
a  flutter,  in  some  corner  of  your  soul. 

And  when,  years  after,  you  learn  that  she 
has  returned — a  woman,  there  is  a  slight 

e'ow,  but  no  tumultuous  bound  of  the  heart, 
ife,  and  time  have  worried  you  down 
like  a  spent  hound.  The  world  has  given 
you  a  habit  of  easy  and  unmeaning  smiles. 
You  half  accuse  yourself  of  ingratitude 
and  forgetfulness  ;  but  the  accusation  does 
not  oppress  you.  It  does  not  even  dis- 
tract your  attention  from  the  morning  jour- 
nal. You  cannot  work  yourself  into  a  re- 
.spectable  degree  of  indignation  against  the 
old  gentleman — her  guardian. 

You  sigh — poor  thing!— and  in  a  very 
flashy  waistcoat,  you  venture  a  morning 
call. 

She  meets  you  kindly, — a  comely,  mat- 
ronly dame  in  gingham,  with  her  curls  all 
gathered  under  a  high-topped  comb;  and 
she  presents  to  you  two  little  boys  in  smart 
crimson  jackets,  dressed  up  with  braid. 
And  you  dine  with  Madame — a  family 
party  ;  and  the  weazen-faced  old  gentle- 
men meets  you  with  a  most  pleasant  shake 
of  the  hand, — hints  that  you  were  among 


WITH  A  WISP  OF  PAPER.  133 

his  niece's  earliest  friends,  and  hopes  that 
you  are  getting  on  well  ? 

Capitally  well ! 

And  the  boys  toddle  in  at  dessert — Dick 
to  get  a  plum  from  your  own  dish ;  Tom  to 
be  kissed  by  his  rosy-faced  papa.  In  short, 
you  are  made  perfectly  at  home  ;  and  you 
sit  over  your  wine  for  an  hour,  in  a  cozy 
smoke  with  the  gentlemanly  uncle,  and 
with  the  very  courteous  husband  of  your 
second  flame. 

It  is  all  very  jovial  at  the  table ;  for  good 
wine  is,  I  find,  a  great  strengthener  of  the 
bachelor  heart.  But  afterward,  when  night 
has  fairly  set  in,  and  the  blaze  of  your  fire, 
goes  flickering  over  your  lonely  quarters, 
you  heave  a  deep  sigh.  And  as  your  thought 
runs  back  to  the  perfidious  Louise,  and 
calls  up  the  married,  and  matronly  Nelly, 
you  sob  over  that  poor  dumb  heart  within 
you,  which  craves  so  madly  a  free  and  joy- 
ous utterance !  And  as  you  lean  over  with 
your  forehead  in  your  hands,  and  your  eyes 
fall  upon  the  old  hound  slumbering  on  the 
rug, — the  tears  start,  and  you  wish, — that 
you  had  married  years  ago ; — and  that  you 
too  had  your  pair  of  prattling  boys,  to  drive 
away  the  loneliness  of  your  solitary  hearth 
stone. 

My  cigar  would  not  go ;  it  was  fairly 

out.  But  with  true  bachelor  obstinacy,  I 
vowed  that  I  would  light  again. 


HI. 

LIGHTED  WITH  A  MATCH. 

I  HATE  a  match.  I  feel  sure  that  brim- 
stone  matches  were  never  made  in 
heaven;  and  it  is  sad  to  think,  that 
with  few  exceptions,  matches  are  all  of 
them  tipped  with  brimstone. 

But  my  taper  having  burned  out,  and 
the  coals  being  all  dead  upon  the  hearth,  a 
match  is  all  that  is  left  to  me. 

All  matches  will  not  blaze  on  the  first 
trial;  and  there  are  those,  that  with  the 
most  indefatigable  coaxings,  never  show  a 
spark.  They  may  indeed  leave  in  their 
trail  phosphorescent  streaks ;  but  you  can 
no  more  light  your  cigar  at  them,  than  you 
can  kindle  your  heart,  at  the  covered  wife- 
trails,  which  the  infernal,  gossipping,  old 
match-makers  will  lay  in  your  path. 

Was  there  ever  a  bachelor  of  seven  and 
twenty,  I  wonder,  who  has  not  been 
haunted  by  pleasant  old  ladies,  and  trim, 
excellent,  good-natured,  married  friends, 

(134) 


LIGHTED  WITH  A  MATCH.  135 

who  talk  to  him  about  nice  matches, — 
"  very  nice  matches," — matches  which 
never  go  off?  And  who,  pray,  has  not 
had  some  kind  old  uncle,  to  fill  two  sheets 
for  him,  (perhaps  in  the  time  of  heavy 
postages)  about  some  most  eligible  con- 
nection,— "of  highly  respectable  parent- 
age !" 

What  a  delightful  thing,  surely,  for  a 
withered  bachelor,  to  bloom  forth  in  the 
dignity  of  an  ancestral  tree !  What  a 
precious  surprise  for  him,  who  has  all  his 
life  worshipped  the  wing-heeled  Mercury, 
to  find  on  a  sudden,  a  great  stock  of  pre- 
served, and  most  respectable  Penates ! 

In  God's  name, — thought  I,  puffing 

vehemently, — what  is  a  man's  heart  given 
him  for,  if  not  to  choose,  where  his  heart's 
blood,  every  drop  of  it  is  flowing?  Who 
is  going  to  dam  these  billowy  tides  of  the 
soul,  whose  roll  is  ordered  by  a  planet 
greater  than  the  moon ; — and  that  planet — 
Venus  ?  Who  is  going  to  shift  this  vane  of 
my  desires,  when  every  breeze  that  passes 
in  my  heaven  is  keeping  it  all  the  more 
strongly,  to  its  fixed  bearings  ? 

Besides  this,  there  are  the  money 
matches,  urged  upon  you  by  disinterested 
bachelor  friends,  who  would,  be  very  proud 
to  see  you  at  the  head  of  an  establish- 
ment. And  I  must  confess  that  this  kind 


136  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

of  talk  has  a  pleasant  jingle  about  it ;  and 
is  one  of  the  cleverest  aids  to  a  bachelor's 
day-dreams,  that  can  well  be  imagined. 
And  let  not  the  pouting  lady  condemn  me, 
without  a  hearing. 

It  is  certainly  cheerful  to  think, — for  a 
contemplative  bachelor, — that  the  pretty 
ermine  which  so  sets  off  the  transparent 
hue  of  your  imaginary  wife,  or  the  lace 
which  lies  so  bewitchingly  upon  the  superb 
roundness  of  her  form, — or  the  graceful 
boddice,  trimmed  to  aline,  which  is  of  such 
exquisite  adaptation  to  her  lithe  figure, 
will  be  always  at  her  command  ; — nay,  that 
these  are  only  units  among  the  chameleon 
hues,  under  which  you  shall  feed  upon  her 
beauty !  I  want  to  know  if  it  is  not  a 
pretty  cabinet  picture,  for  fancy  to  luxu- 
riate upon — that  of  a  sweet  wife,  who  is 
cheating  hosts  of  friends  into  love,  sym- 
pathy and  admiration,  by  the  modest  mu- 
nificence of  her  wealth  ?  Is  it  not  rather 
agreeable,  to  feed  your  hopeful  soul  upon 
that  abundance,  which,  while  it  supplies 
her  need,  will  give  a  range  to  her  loving 
charities  ; — which  will  keep  from  her  brow 
the  shadows  of  anxiety,  and  will  sublime 
her  gentle  nature,  by  adding  to  it  the 
grace  of  an  angel  of  mercy  ? 

Is  it  not  rich,  in  those  days  when  the 
pestilent  humors  of  bachelorhood  hang 


LIGHTED  WITH  A  MA  TCH.  137 

heavy  on  you,  to  foresee  in  that  shadowy 
realm,  where  hope  is  a  native,  the  quiet  of 
a  home,  made  splendid  with  attractions; 
and  made  real,  by  the  presence  of  her,  who 
bestows  them  ? — Upon  my  word — thought 
I,  as  I  continued  puffing, — such  a  match 
must  make  a  very  grateful  lighting  of  one's 
inner  sympathies ;  nor  am  I  prepared  to 
say,  that  such  associations  would  not  add 
force  to  the  most  abstract  love  imaginable. 

Think  of  it  for  a  moment ; — what  is  itt 
that  we  poor  fellows  love  ?  We  love,  if  one 
may  judge  for  himself,  over  his  cigar, — gen- 
tleness, beauty,  refinement,  generosity,  and 
intelligence, — and  far  above  these,  a  return- 
ing love,  made  up  of  all  these  qualities,  and 
gaining  upon  your  love,  day  by  day,  and 
month  by  month,  like  a  sunny  morning, 
gaining  upon  the  frosts  of  night. 

But  wealth  is  a  great  means  of  refine- 
ment ;  and  it  is  a  security  for  gentleness, 
since  it  removes  disturbing  anxieties  ;  and 
it  is  a  pretty  promoter  of  intelligence,  since 
It  multiplies  the  avenues  for  its  reception  ; 
and  it  is  a  good  basis  for  a  generous  habit 
of  life  ;  it  even  equips  beauty,  neither  hard- 
ening its  hand  with  toil,  nor  tempting  the 
wrinkles  to  come  early.  But  whether  it 
provokes  greatly  that  returning  passion, — 
that  abnegation  of  soul, — that  sweet  trust- 
fulness, and  abiding  affection,  which  are  to 


138  REVERIES  OF,  A  BACHELOR, 

clothe  your  heart  with  joy,  is  far  more 
doubtful.  Wealth  while  it  gives  so  much, 
asks  much  in  return ;  and  the  soul  that  is 
grateful  to  mammon,  is  not  over  ready  to 
be  grateful  for  intensity  of  love.  It  is  hard 
to  gratify  those,  who  have  nothing  left  to 
gratify. 

Heaven  help  the  man  who  having  wearied 
his  soul  with  delays  and  doubts,  or  ex- 
hausted the  freshness,  and  exuberance  of 
his  youth, — by  a  hundred  little  dallyings 
of  love, — consigns  himself  at  length  to  the 
issues  of  what  people  call  a  nice  match — 
whether  of  money,  or  of  a  family  ! 

Heaven  help  you — (I  brushed  the  ashes 
from  my  cigar)  when  you  begin  to  regard 
marriage  as  only  a  respectable  institution, 
and  under  the  advices  of  staid  old  friends, 
begin  to  look  about  you  for  some  very  re- 
spectable wife.  You  may  admire  her  fig- 
ure, and  her  family ;  and  bear  pleasantly 
in  mind  the  very  casual  mention  which  has 
been  made  by  some  of  your  penetrating 
friends, — that  she  has  large  expectations. 
You  think  that  she  would  make  a  very  cap- 
ital appearance  at  the  head  of  your  table  ; 
nor  in  the  event  of  your  coming  to  any 

Eublic  honor,  would  she  make  you  blush 
>r  her  breeding.     She  talks  well,  exceed- 
ingly well ;  and  her  face  has  its  charms ; 
especially  under  a  little  excitement.     Her 


LIGHTED  WITH  A  MATCH.  139 

dress  is  elegant,  and  tasteful,  and  she  is 
constantly  remarked  upon  by  all  your 
friends,  as  a  "nice  person."  Some  good 
old  lady,  in  whose  pew  she  occasionally  sits 
on  a  Sunday,  or  to  whom  she  has  sometime 
sent  a  papier  mache  card-case,  for  the  show- 
box  of  some  Dorcas  benevolent  society, 
thinks, — with  a  sly  wink, — that  she  would 
make  a  fine  wife  for — somebody. 

She  certainly  has  an  elegant  figure;  and 
the  marriage  of  some  half  dozen  of  your 
old  flames,  warn  you  that  time  is  slip- 
ping and  your  chances  failing.  And  in  the 
pleasant  warmth  of  some  after-dinner  mood, 
you  resolve — with  her  image  in  her  prettiest 
pelisse  drifting  across  your  brain — that 
you  will  marry.  Now  comes  the  pleasant 
excitement  of  the  chase;  and  whatever 
family  dignity  may  surround  her,  only  adds 
to  the  pleasurable  glow  of  the  pursuit. 
You  give  an  hour  more  to  your  toilette, 
and  a  hundred  or  two  more,  a  year,  to  your 
tailor.  All  is  orderly,  dignified,  and  gra- 
cious. Charlotte  is  a  sensible  woman,  every- 
body says;  and  you  believe  it  yourself. 
You  agree  in  your  talk  about  books,  and 
churches,  and  flowers.  Of  course  she  has 
good  taste — for  she  accepts  you.  The 
acceptance  is  dignified,  elegant,  and  even 
courteous. 

You  receive  numerous  congratulations ; 


140  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

and  your  old  friend  Tom  writes  you — that 
he  hears  you  are  going  to  marry  a  spendid 
woman;  and  all  the  old  ladies  say — what 
a  capital  match !  And  your  business  part- 
ner, who  is  a  married  man,  and  something 
of  a  wag — "sympathizes  sincerely."  Upon 
the  whole,  you  feel  a  little  proud  of  your 
arrangement.  You  write  to  an  old  friend 
in  the  country,  that  you  are  to  marry  pres- 
ently Miss  Charlotte  of  such  a  street, 
whose  father  was  something  very  fine,  in 
his  way;  and  whose  father  before  him  was 
very  distinguished; — you  add,  in  a  post- 
script, that  she  is  easily  situated,  and  has 
"expectations."  Your  friend,  who  has  a 
wife  that  he  loves,  and  that  loves  him, 
writes  back  kindly — "hoping  you  may  be 
happy;"  and  hoping  so  yourself,  you 
light  your  cigar, — one  of  your  last  bachelor 
cigars, — with  the  margin  of  his  letter. 

The  match  goes  off  with  a  brilliant  mar- 
riage;— at  which  you  receive  a  very  elegant 
welcome  from  your  wife's  spinster  cousins, 
— and  drink  a  great  deal  of  champagne  with 
her  bachelor  uncles.  And  as  you  take  the 
dainty  hand  of  your  bride, — very  magnifi- 
cent under  that  bridal  wreath,  and  with  her 
face  lit  up  by  a  brilliant  glow, — your  eye, 
and  your  soul,  for  the  first  time,  grow  full. 
And  as  your  arm  circles  that  elegant  figure, 
and  you  draw  her  toward  you,  feeling  that 


LIGHTED  WITH  A  MATCH.  141 

she  is  yours, — there  is  a  bound  at  your 
heart,  that  makes  you  think  your  soul-life 
is  now  whole,  and  earnest.  All  your  early 
dreams,  and  imaginations,  come  flowing  on 
your  thought,  like  bewildering  music ;  and 
as  you  gaze  upon  her, — the  admiration  of 
that  crowd, — it  seems  to  you,  that  all  that 
your  heart  prizes,  is  made  good  by  the  ac- 
cident of  marriage. 

— Ah — thought  I,  brushing  off  the  ashes 
again, — bridal  pictures  are  not  home  pic- 
tures ;  and  the  hour  at  the  altar,  is  but  a 
poor  type  of  the  waste  of  years  ! 

Your  household  is  elegantly  ordered ; 
Charlotte  has  secured  the  best  of  house- 
keepers, and  she  meets  the  compliments  of 
your  old  friends  who  come  to  dine  with  you, 
with  a  suavity,  that  is  never  at  fault.  And 
they  tell  you,  — after  the  cloth  is  removed, 
and  you  sit  quietly  smoking  in  memory  of 
the  olden  times, — that  she  is  a  splendid  wo- 
man. Even  the  old  ladies  who  come  for 
occasional  charities,  think  Madame  a  pat- 
tern of  a  lady ;  and  so  think  her  old  ad- 
mirers, whom  she  receives  still  with  an 
easy  grace,  that  half  puzzles  you.  And  as 
you  stand  by  the  ball  room  door,  at  two  of 
the  morning,  with  your  Charlotte's  shawl 
upon  your  arm,  some  little  panting  fellow 
will  confirm  the  general  opinion,  by  telling 
you  that  Madame  is  a  magnificent  dancer  ; 


14*  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

and  Monsieur  le  Comte,  will  praise  extrava- 
gantly her  French.  You  are  grateful  for 
all  this  ;  but  you  have  an  uncommonly  ser- 
ious way  of  expressing  your  gratitude. 

You  think  you  ought  to  be  a  very  happy 
fellow  ;  and  yet  long  shadows  do  steal  over 
your  thought ;  and  you  wonder  that  the 
sight  of  your  Charlotte  in  the  dress  you 
used  to  admire  so  much,  does  not  scatter 
them  to  the  winds  ;  but  it  does  not.  You 
feel  coy  about  putting  your  arm  around 
that  delicately  robed  figure, — you  might  de- 
range the  plaitings  of  her  dress.  She  is 
civil  towards  you  ;  and  tender  towards  your 
bachelor  friends.  She  talks  with  dignity, 
— adjusts  her  lace  cape, — and  hopes  you  will 
make  a  figure  in  the  world,  for  the  sake  of 
the  family.  Her  cheek  is  never  soiled  with 
a  tear  ;  and  her  smiles  are  frequent,  especial- 
ly when  you  have  some  spruce  young  fel- 
lows at  your  table. 

You  catch  sight  of  occasional  notes  per- 
haps, whose  superscription  you  do  not 
know ;  and  some  of  her  admirers'  attentions 
become  so  pointed,  and  constant,  that  your 
pride  is  stirred.  It  would  be  silly  to  show 
jealousy  ;  but  you  suggest  to  your  "  dear" 
— as  you  sip  your  tea, — the  slight  impro- 
priety of  her  action. 

Perhaps  you  fondly  long  for  some  little 
scene,  as  a  proof  of  wounded  confidence ; 


LIGHTED  WITH  A  MA  TCH.  143 

but  no — nothing  of  that ;  she  trusts,  (call- 
ing you  "  my  dear,")  that  she  knows  how  to 
sustain  the  dignity  of  her  position. 

You  are  too  sick  at  heart,  for  comment, 
or  for  reply. 

And  is  this  the  intertwining  of  soul, 

of  which  you  had  dreamed  in  the  days  that 
are  gone  ?  Is  this  the  blending  of  sym- 
pathies that  was  to  steal  from  life  its  bit- 
terness ;  and  spread  over  care  and  suffer- 
ing, the  sweet,  ministering  hand  of  kind- 
ness, and  of  love  ?  Aye,  you  may  well  wan- 
der back  to  your  bachelor  club,  and  make 
the  hours  long_at  the  journals,  or  at  play 


—killing  the  flagging  lapse  of  your  life! 
Talk  sprightly  with  your  old  friends, — and 
mimic  the  joy  you  have  not ;  or  you  will 
wear  a  bad  name  upon  your  hearth,  and 
head.  Never  suffer  your  Charlotte  to  catch 
sight  of  the  tears  which  in  bitter  hours, 
may  start  from  your  eye;  or  to  hear  the 
sighs  which  in  your  times  of  solitary  mus- 
ings, may  break  forth  sudden,  and  heavy. 
Go  on  counterfeiting  your  life,  as  you  have 
began.  It  was  a  nice  match  ;  and  you  are 
a  nice  husband  ! 

But  you  have  a  little  boy,  thank  God, 
toward  whom  your  heart  runs  out  freely ; 
and  you  love  to  catch  him  in  his  respite 
from  your  well-ordered  nursery,  and  the 
tasks  of  his  teachers— alone ;— and  to 
spend  upon  him  a  little  of  that  depth  of 


S44  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

feeling,  which  through  so  many  years  has 
scarce  been  stirred.  You  play  with  him  at 
his  games ;  you  fondle  him  ;  you  take  him 
to  your  bosom. 

— But  papa — he  says — see  how  you  have 
tumbled  my  collar.  What  shall  I  tell 
mamma  ? 

Tell  her,  my  boy,  that  I  love  you  ! 

Ah,  thought  I — -(my  cigar  was  getting 
dull,  and  nauseous,) — is  there  not  a  spot  in 
your  heart,  that  the  gloved  hand  of  your 
elegant  wife  has  never  reached  : — that  you 
wish  it  might  reach  ? 

You  go  to  see  a  far-away  friend  :  his  was 
not  a  '  nice  match  :'  he  was  married  years 
before  you  :  and  yet  the  beaming  looks  of 
his  wife,  and  his  lively  smile,  are  as  fresh 
and  honest  as  they  were  years  ago ;  and 
they  make  you  ashamed  of  your  disconso- 
late humor.  Your  stay  is  lengthened,  but 
the  home  letters  are  not  urgent  for  your 
return :  yet  they  are  marvellously  proper 
letters,  and  rounded  with  a  French  adieu. 
You  could  have  wished  a  little  scrawl  from 
your  boy  at  the  bottom,  in  the  place  of  the 
postscript  which  gives  you  the  names  of  a 
new  opera  troupe ;  and  you  hint  as  much — 
a  very  bold  stroke  for  you. 

Ben, — she  says, — writes  too  shamefully. 

And  at  your  return,  there  is  no  great 
anticipation  of  delight;  in  contrast  with 
the  old  dreams,  that  a  pleasant  summer's 


LIGHTED  WITH  A  MA  TCH.  145 

journey  has  called  up,  your  parlor  as  you 
enter  it — so  elegant,  so  still — so  modish— 
seems  the  charnel-house  of  your  heart. 

By  and  by,  you  fall  into  weary  days  of  sick- 
ness ;  you  have  capital  nurses — nurses 
highly  recommended — nurses  who  never 
make  mistakes — nurses  who  have  served 
long  in  the  family.  But  alas  for  that  heart 
of  sympathy,  and  for  that  sweet  face, 
shaded  with  your  pain — like  a  soft  land- 
scape with  flying  clouds — you  have  none  of 
them !  Your  pattern  wife  may  come  in 
from  time  to  time  to  look  after  your  nurse, 
or  to  ask  after  your  sleep,  and  glide  out 
— her  silk  dress  rustling  upon  the  door 
— like  dead  leaves  in  the  cool  night  breezes 
of  winter.  Or  perhaps  after  putting  this 
chair  in  its  place,  and  adjusting  to  a  more 
tasteful  fold  that  curtain — she  will  ask  you, 
with  a  tone  that  might  mean  sympathy,  if 
it  were  not  a  stranger  to  you, — if  she  can 
do  anything  more. 

Thank  her— as  kindly  as  you  can,  and 
close  your  eyes,  and  dream  : — or  rouse  up, 
to  lay  your  hand  upon  the  head  of  your 
little  boy, — to  drink  in  health,  and  happi- 
ness, from  his  earnest  look,  as  he  gazes 
strangely  upon  your  pale  and  shrunken  fore- 
head. Your  smile  even,  ghastly  with  long 
suffering,  disturbs  him ;  there  is  no  inter- 
preter, save  the  heart,  between  you. 

Your  parched  lips  feel  strangely,  to  his 


.46  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

flushed,  healthful  face ;  and  he  steps  about 
on  tip-toe,  at  a  motion  from  the  nurse,  to 
look  at  all  those  rosy-colored  medicines 
upon  the  table, — and  he  takes  your  cane 
from  the  corner,  and  passes  his  hand  over 
the  smooth  ivory  head ;  and  he  runs  his 
eve  along  the  wall  from  picture  to  picture, 
till  it  rests  on  one  he  knows, — a  figure  in 
bridal  dress, — beautiful,  almost  fond ; — and 
he  forgets  himself,  and  says  aloud—'  there's 
mamma ! ' 

The  nurse  puts  her  finger  to  her  lip ;  you 
waken  from  your  doze  to  see  where  your 
eager  boy  is  looking  ;  and  your  eyes  too, 
take  in  much  as  they  can  of  that  figure 
— now  shadowy  to  your  fainting  vision — 
doubly  shadowy  to  your  fainting  heart ! 

From  day  to  day,  you  sink  from  life  :  the 
physician  says  the  end  is  not  far  off ;  why 
should  it  be  ?  There  is  very  little  elastic 
force  within  you  to  keep  the  end  away. 
Madame  is  called,  and  your  little  boy. 
Your  sight  is  dim,  but  they  whisper  that 
she  is  beside  your  bed  ;  and  you  reach  out 
your  hand — both  hands.  You  fancy  you 
hear  a  sob  : — a  strange  sound  !  It  seems 
as  if  it  came  from  distant  years — a  con- 
fused, broken  sigh,  sweeping  over  the  long 
stretch  of  your  life :  and  a  sigh  from  your 
heart — not  audible — answers  it. 

Your  trembling  fingers  clutch  the  hand 
of  your  little  boy,  and  you  drag  him  toward 


LIGHTED  WITH  A  MATCH.  147 

you,  and  move  your  lips,  as  if  you  would 
speak  to  him  ;  and  they  place  his  head  near 
you,  so  that  you  feel  his  fine  hair  brush- 
ing your  cheek. My  boy,  you  must  love 

— your  mother ! 

Your  other  hand  feels  a  quick,  convulsive 
grasp,  and  something  like  a  tear  drops  upon 
your  face.  Good  God  ! — Can  it  be  indeed 
a  tear? 

You  strain  your  vision,  and  a  feeble  smile 
flits  over  your  features,  as  you  seem  to  see 
her  figure — the  figure  of  the  painting — 
bending  over  you  ;  and  you  feel  a  bound 
at  your  heart — the  same  bound  that  you 
felt  on  your  bridal  morning ; — the  same 
bound  wnich  you  used  to  feel  in  the  spring- 
time of  your  life. 

Only  one — rich,  full  bound 'of  the 

heart ; that  is  all ! 

My  cigar  was  out.  I  could  not 

have  lit  it  again,  if  I  would.  It  was  wholly 
burned. 

"  Aunt  Tabithy  "—said  I,  as  I  finished 
reading, — "  may  I  smoke  now  under  your 
rose  tree  ? " 

Aunt  Tabithy,  who  had  laid  down  her 
knitting  to  hear  me, — smiled, — brushed  a 
tear  from  her  old  eyes, — said, — "Yes — 
Isaac,"  and  having  scratched  the  back  of 
her  head,  with  the  disengaged  needle,  re- 
sumed her  knitting, 


FOURTH  REVERIE 


MORNING,  NOON,  AND 
EVENING. 


MORNING,  NOON,  AND 
EVENING. 


IT  is  a  Spring  day  under  the  oaks— the 
loved  oaks  of  a  once  cherished  home, — 
now,  alas,  mine  no  longer ! 

I  had  sold  the  old  farm-house,  and  the 
groves,  and  the  cool  springs,  where  I  had 
bathed  my  head  in  the  heats  of  summer; 
and  with  the  first  warm  days  of  May,  they 
were  to  pass  from  me  forever.  Seventy 
years  they  had  been  in  the  possession  of 
my  mother's  family ;  for  seventy  years, 
they  had  borne  the  same  name  of  proprie- 
torship ;  for  seventy  years,  the  Lares  of 
our  country  home,  often  neglected,  almost 
forgotten, — yet  brightened  from  time  to 
time,  by  gleams  of  heart -worship,  had  held 
their  place  in  the  sweet  valley  of  Elm- 
grove. 

And  in  this  changeful,  bustling,  Ameri- 
can life  of  ours,  seventy  years  is  no  child's 
holiday.  The  hurry  of  action,  and  prog- 


152  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

ress,  may  pass  over  it  with  quick  step; 
but  the  foot-prints  are  many  and  deep. 
You  surely  will  not  wonder  that  it  made 
me  sad  and  thoughtful,  to  break  the  chain 
of  years,  that  bound  to  my  heart,  the 

oaks,  the  hills,  the  springs,  the  valley 

and  such  a  valley ! 

A  wild  stream  runs  through  it, — large 
enough  to  make  a  river  for  English  land- 
scape,— winding  between  rich  banks, 
where  in  summer  time,  the  swallows  build 
their  nests,  and  brood  by  myriads. 

Tall  elms  rise  here  and  there  along  the 
margin,  and  with  their  uplifted  arms,  and 
leafy  spray,  throw  great  patches  of  shade 
upon  the  meadow.  Old  lion-like  oaks,  too, 
where  the  meadow-soil  hardens  into  rolling 
upland,  fasten  to  the  ground  with  their 
ridgy  roots ;  and  with  their  gray,  scraggy 
limbs,  make  delicious  shelter  for  the  pant- 
ing workers,  or  for  the  herds  of  August. 

Westward  of  the  stream,  where  I  am 
lying,  the  banks  roll  up  swiftly  into  slop- 
ing hills,  covered  with  groves  of  oaks,  and 
green  pasture  lands,  dotted  with  mossy 
rocks.  And  farther  on,  where  some  wood 
has  been  swept  down,  some  ten  years  gone, 
by  the  axe,  the  new  growth,  heavy  with 
the  luxuriant  foliage  of  spring,  covers 
wide  spots  of  the  slanting  land ; — while 
some  dead  tree  in  the  midst,  still  stretches 


MORNING,  NOON,  AND  EVENING.      153 

out  its  bare  arms  to  the  blast — a  solitary 
mourner,  over  the  wreck  of  its  forest 
brothers. 

Eastward,  the  ridgy  bank  passes  into 
wavy  meadows,  upon  whose  farther  edge, 
you  see  the  roofs  of  an  old  mansion,  with 
tall  chimneys  and  taller  elm-trees  shading 
it.  Beyond,  the  hills  rise  gently,  and 
sweep  away  into  wood-crowned  heights, 
that  are  blue  with  distance.  At  the  upper 
end  of  the  valley,  the  stream  is  lost  to  the 
eye,  in  a  wide  swamp  wood,  which  in  the 
autumn  time  is  covered  with  a  scarlet  sheet, 
blotched  here  and  there  by  the  dark  crim- 
son stains  of  the  ash-tops.  Farther  on, 
the  hills  crowd  close  to  the  brook,  and  come 
down  with  granite  boulders,  and  scattered 
birch  trees,  and  beeches, — under  which, 
upon  the  smoky  mornings  of  May,  I  have 
time  and  again  loitered,  and  thrown  my 
line  into  the  pools,  which  curl,  dark,  and 
still,  under  their  tangled  roots. 

Below,  and  looking  southward,through  the 
openings  of  the  oaks  that  shade  me,  I  see  a 
broad  stretch  of  meadow,  with  glimpses  of 
the  silver  surface  of  the  stream,  and  of  the 
giant  solitary  elms,  and  of  some  old  maple 
that  has  yielded  to  the  spring  tides,  and 
now  dips  its  lower  boughs  in  the  insidious 
current ; — and  of  clumps  of  alders,  and  wil- 
low tufts, — above  which  even  now,  the 


154  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR, 

black-and-white  coated  Bob-o'-Lincoln,  is 
wheeling  his  musical  flight,  while  his 
quieter  mate  sits  swaying  on  the  topmost 
twigs. 

A  quiet  road  passes  within  a  short  dis- 
tance of  me,  and  crosses  the  brook  by  a 
rude  timber  bridge ;  beside  the  bridge,  is  a 
broad  glassy  pool,  shaded  by  old  maples,, 
and  hickories,  where  the  cattle  drink  each, 
morning  on  their  way  to  the  hill  pastures. 
A  step  or  two  beyond  the  stream,  a  lane 
branches  across  the  meadows,  to  the  man* 
sion  with  the  tall  chimneys.  I  can  just  re- 
member now,  the  stout,  broad-shouldered 
old  gentleman,  with  his  white  hat,  his  long 
white  hair,  and  his  white  headed  cane,  who 
built  the  house,  and  who  farmed  the  whole 
valley  around  me.  He  is  gone,  long  since; 
and  lies  in  a  grave  yard  looking  upon  the 
sea!  The  elms  that  he  planted  shake  their 
weird  arms  over  the  mouldering  roofs ;  and 
his  fruit-garden  shows  only  a  battered 
phalanx  of  mossy  limbs,  which  will  scarce 
tempt  the  July  marauders. 

In  the  other  direction,  upon  this  side 
the  brook,  the  road  is  lost  to  view,  among 
the  trees ;  but  if  I  were  to  follow  the  wind- 
ings upon  the  hill-side,  it  would  bring  me 
shortly  upon  the  old  home  of  my  grand- 
father; there  is  no  pleasure  in  wandering 
there  now.  The  woods  that  sheltered  it 


MORNING,  NOON,  AND  EVENING.      155 

from  the  northern  winds,  are  cut  down ;  the 
tall  cherries  that  made  the  yard  one  leafy 
bower,  are  dead.  The  cornice  is  straggling 
from  the  eaves;  the  porch  has  fallen;  the 
stone  chimney  is  yawning  with  wide  gaps. 
Within,  it  is  even  worse ;  the  floors  sway 
upon  the  mouldering  beams ;  the  doors  all 
sag  from  their  hinges ;  the  rude  frescos 
upon  the  parlor-wall  are  peeling  off  ;  all  is 

going  to  decay. And  my  grandfather 

sleeps  in  a  little  grave-yard,  by  the  garden- 
wall. 

A  lane  branches  from  the  country  road, 
within  a  few  yards  of  me,  and  leads  back, 
along  the  edge  of  the  meadow,  to  the 
homely  cottage,  which  has  been  my  special 
care.  Its  gray  porch,  and  chimney  are 
thrown  into  rich  relief,  by  a  grove  of  oaks 
that  skirts  the  hill  behind  it ;  and  the  doves 
are  flying  uneasily  about  the  open  doors  of 
the  granary,  and  barns.  The  morning  sun 
shines  pleasantly  on  the  gray  group  of 
buildings  ;  and  the  lowing  of  the  cows,  not 
yet  driven  afield,  adds  to  the  charming 
homeliness  of  the  scene.  But  alas,  for  the 
poor  azalias,  and  laurels,  and  vines,  that  I 
had  put  out  upon  the  little  knoll  before  the 
cottage  door — they  are  all  of  them  trodden 
down:  only  one  poor  creeper  hangs  its 
loose  tresses  to  the  lattice,  all  dishevelled, 
and  forlorn  ! 


156  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

This  bye-lane  which  opens  upon  my 
farm-house,  leaves  the  road  in  the  middle 
of  a  grove  of  oaks  ;  the  brown  gate  swings 
upon  an  oak  tree, — the  brown  gate  closes 
upon  an  oak  tree.  There  is  a  rustic  seat, 
built  between  two  veteran  trees,  that  rise 
from  a  little  hillock  near  by.  Half  a  cen- 
tury ago,  there  was  a  rustic  seat  on  the 
same  hillock — between  the  same  veteran 
trees.  I  can  trace  marks  of  the  old  blotches 
upon  the  bark,  and  the  scars  of  the  nails, 
upon  the  scathed  trunks.  Time,  and  time 
again,  it  has  been  renewed.  This,  the  last, 
was  built  by  my  own  hands, — a  cheerful, 
and  a  holy  duty. 

Sixty  years  ago,  they  tell  me,  my  grand- 
father used  to  loiter  here  with  his  gun, 
while  his  hounds  lay  around  under  the 
scattered  oaks.  Now  he  sleeps,  as  I  said, 
in  the  little  grave-yard  yonder,  where  I  can 
see  one  or  two  white  tablets  glimmering 
through  the  foliage.  I  never  knew  him ; 
he  died,  as  the  brown  stone  table  says, 
aged  twenty-six.  Yesterday  I  climbed  the 
wall  that  skirts  the  yard,  and  plucked  a 
flower  from  his  tomb.  I  take  out  now 
from  my  pocket  book,  that  flower, — a  frail, 
first-blooming  violet, — and  write  upon  the 
slip  of  paper,  into  which  I  have  thrust  its 
delicate  stem,— 'From  my  grandfather's 
tomb : — 1850.' 


MORNING,  NOON,  AND  EVENING.      157 

But  other  feet  have  trod  upon  this  knoli 
— far  more  dear  to  me.  The  old  neighbors 
have  sometimes  told  me,  how  they  have 
seen,  forty  years  ago,  two  rosy-faced  girls, 
idling  on  this  spot,  under  the  shade,  and 
gathering  acorns,  and  making  oak-leaved 

garlands,  for  their  foreheads. Alas,  alas, 

the  garlands  they  wear  now,  are  not  earthly 
garlands ! 

Upon  that  spot,  and  upon  that  rustic 
seat,  I  am  lying  this  May  morning.  I  have 
placed  my  gun  against  a  tree  ;  my  shot- 
pouch  I  have  hung  upon  a  broken  limb.  I 
have  thrown  my  feet  upon  the  bench,  and 
lean  against  one  of  the  gnarled  oaks,  be- 
tween which  the  seat  is  built.  My  hat  is 
off ;  my  book  and  paper,  are  beside  me ; 
and  my  pencil  trembles  in  my  fingers,  as  I 
catch  sight  of  those  white  marble  tablets, 
gleaming  through  the  trees,  from  the 
height  above  me,  like  beckoning  angel 

faces. If  they  were  alive ! — two  more 

near,  and  dear  friends,  in  a  world  where 
we  count  friends,  by  units  ! 

It  is  morning — a  bright  spring  morning 
under  the  oaks — these  loved  oaks  of  a  once 
cherished  home.  Last  night,  I  slept  in 
yonder  mansion,  under  the  elms.  The 
cattle  going  to  the  pasture  are  drinking  in 
the  pool  by  the  bridge ;  the  boy  who  drives 
them,  is  making  his  shrill  halloo  echo 
against  the  hills.  The  sun  has  risen  fairly 


i58  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

oVer  the  eastern  heights,  and  shines 
brightly  upon  the  meadow  land,  and  bright- 
ly upon  a  bend  of  the  brook  below  me. 
The  birds,— the  blue-birds  sweetest  and 
noisiest  of  all, — are  singing  over  me  in 
the  branches.  A  wood-pecker  is  hammer- 
ing at  a  dry  limb  aloft ;  and  Carlo  pricks 
up  his  ears,  and  listens,  and  looks  at  me, — 
then  stretches  out  his  head  upon  his  paws, 
in  a  warm  bit  of  the  sunshine, — and  sleeps. 

Morning  brings  back  to  me  the  Past; 
and  the  past  brings  up  not  only  its  actuali- 
ties, not  only  its  events,  and  memories,  but 
— stranger  still, — what  might  have  been. 
Every  little  circumstance  which  dawns  on 
the  awakened  memory,  is  traced  not  only 
to  its  actual,  but  to  its  possible  issues. 

What  a  wide  world  that  makes  of  the 
Past  ! — a  great  and  gorgeous, — a  rich  and 
holy  world !  Your  fancy  fills  it  up  artist- 
like  ;  the  darkness  is  mellowed  off  into  soft 
shades  ;  the  bright  spots  are  veiled  in  the 
sweet  atmosphere  of  distance ;  and  fancy 
and  memory  together,  make  up  a  rich 
dream-land  of  the  past. 

And  now,  as  I  go  on  to  trace  upon  paper 
some  of  the  visions  that  float  across  that 
dream-land  of  the  Morning, — I  will  not — I 
cannot  say,  how  much  comes  fancy-wise, 
and  how  much  from  this  vaulting  memory. 
Of  this,  the  kind  reader  shall  himself  be 
judge. 


THE  MORNING. 

T  S  ABEL  and  I, — she  is  my  cousin,  and  is 

seven  years  old,  and  I  am  ten, — are 

sitting  together  on  the  bank  of  the 

stream,  under  an  oak  tree  that  leans  half 

way  over  to  the  water.     I  am  much  stronger 

than  she,  and  taller  by  a  head.     I  hold  in 

my  hands  a  little  alder  rod,  with  which  I 

am  fishing  for  the   roach  and   minnows, 

that  play  in  the  pool  below  us. 

She  is  watching  the  cork  tossing  on  the 
water,  or  playing  with  the  captured  fish 
that  lie  upon  the  bank.  She  has  auburn 
ringlets  that  fall  down  upon  her  shoulders  ; 
and  her  straw  hat  lies  back  upon  them, 
held  only  by  the  strip  of  ribbon,  that 
passes  under  her  chin.  But  the  sun  does 
not  shine  upon  her  head  ;  for  the  oak  tree 
above  us  is  full  of  leaves ;  and  only  here 
and  there,  a  dimple  of  the  sunlight  plays 
upon  the  pool,  where  I  am  fishing. 

Her  eye  is  hazel,  and  bright ;  and  now 
(i59) 


160  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

and  then  she  turns  it  on  me  with  a  look  of 
girlish  curiosity,  as  I  lift  up  my  rod, — and 
again  in  playful  menace,  as  she  grasps  in 
her  little  ringers  one  of  the  dead  fish,  and 
threatens  to  throw  it  back  upon  the  stream. 
Her  little  feet  Jiang  over  the  edge  of  the 
bank ;  and  from  time  to  time,  she  reaches 
down  to  dip  her  toe  in  the  water;  and 
laughs  a  girlish  laugh  of  defiance,  as  I 
scold  her  for  frightening  away  the  fishes. 
"Bella,"  I  say,  "what  if  you  should 
tumble  in  the  river  ? " 
"But  I  won't." 

"  Yes,  but  if  you  should  ?  "         .'>   ., 
"  Why  then  you  would  pull  me  out." 
"  But  if  I  wouldn't  pull  you  out  ? " 
"  But  I  know  you  would  ;  wouldn't  you, 
Paul?" 

"What  makes  you  think  so,  Bella?" 
"Because  you  love  Bella." 
"How  do  you  know  I  love  Bella  ? " 
"Because   once    you  told  me  so;  and 
because  you  pick   flowers  for  me  that  I 
cannot  reach ;  and  because  you  let  me  take 
your  rod,  when  you  have  a  fish  upon  it." 
"  But  that's  no  reason,  Bella." 
"Then  what  is,  Paul?" 
"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,  Bella." 
A  little  fish  has  been  nibbling  for  a  long 
time  at  the  bait ;  the  cork  has  been  bobbing 
up  and  down  ; — and  now  he  is  fairly  hooked, 


THE  MORNING.  161 

and  pulls  away  toward  the  bank,  and  you 
cannot  see  the  cork. 

— "  Here,  Bella,  quick!" — and  she  springs 
eagerly  to  clasp  her  little  hands  around  the 
rod.  But  the  fish  has  dragged  it  away  on 
the  other  side  of  me ;  and  as  she  reaches 
farther,  and  farther,  she  slips,  cries — "  oh, 
Paul!" — and  falls  into  the  water. 

The  stream  they  told  us,  when  we  came, 
was  over  a  man's  head — it  is  surely  over 
little  Isabel's.  I  fling  down  the  rod,  and 
thrusting  one  hand  into  the  roots  that  sup- 
port the  overhanging  bank,  I  grasp  at  her 
hat,  as  she  comes  up ;  but  the  ribbons  give 
way,  and  I  see  the  terribly  earnest  look 
upon  her  face  as  she  goes  down  again.  Oh, 
my  mother  ! — thought  I, — if  you  were  only 
here! 

But  she  rises  again ;  this  time,  I  thrust 
my  hand  into  her  dress,  and  struggling 
hard,  keep  her  at  the  top,  until  I  can  place 
my  foot  down  upon  a  projecting  root;  and 
so  bracing  myself,  I  drag  her  to  the  bank, 
and  having  climbed  up,  take  hold  of  her 
belt  firmly  with  both  hands,  and  drag  her 
out ;  and  poor  Isabel,  choked,  chilled,  and 
wet,  is  lying  upon  the  grass. 

I  commence  crying  aloud.  The  workmen 
in  the  fields  hear  me,  and  come  down.  One 
takes  Isabel  in  his  arms,  and  I  follow  on 
foot  to  our  uncle's  home  upon  the  hill. 


I6a  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

— "  Oh  my  children  !" — says  my  mother; 
and  she  takes  Isabel  in  her  arms  ;  and  pres- 
ently with  dry  clothes,  and  blazing  wood- 
fire,  little  Bella  smiles  again.  I  am  at  my 
mother's  knee. 

"I  told  you  so,  Paul,"  say  Isabel, — "aunty, 
doesn't  Paul  love  me  ?" 

"I  hope  so,  Bella,"  said  my  mother. 

"  I  know  so,"  said  I ;  and  kissed  her 
cheek. 

And  how  did  I  know  it  ?  The  boy  does 
not  ask  ;  the  man  does.  Oh,  the  freshness, 
the  honesty,  the  vigor  of  a  boy's  heart ! — 
how  the  memory  of  it  refreshes  like  the 
first  gush  of  spring,  or  the  break  of  an 
April  shower ! 

But  boyhood  has  its  PRIDE,  as  well  as  its 
LOVES. 

My  uncle  is  a  tall,  hard-faced  man  :,  I  fear 
him  when  he  calls  me — "child  "  ;  I  love 
him  when  he  calls  me — "Paul."  He  is  al- 
most always  busy  with  his  books ;  and  when 
I  steal  into  the  library  door,  as  I  sometimes 
do,  with  a  string  of  fish,  or  a  heaping  basket 
of  nuts  to  show  to  him, — he  looks  for  a 
moment  curiously  at  them,  sometimes  takes 
them  in  his  fingers, — gives  them  back  to 
me,  and  turns  over  the  leaves  of  his  book. 
You  are  afraid  to  ask  him,  if  you  have  not 
worked  bravely ;  yet  you  want  to  do  so. 

You  sidle  out  softly,  and   go   to    your 


THE  MORNING.  163 

mother;  she  scarce  looks  at  your  little 
stores ;  but  she  draws  you  to  her  with  her 
arm,  and  prints  a  kiss  upon  your  forehead. 
Now  your  tongue  is  unloosed ;  that  kiss, 
and  that  action  have  done  it ;  you  will  tell 
what  capital  luck  you  have  had ;  and  you 
hold  up  your  tempting  trophies  ; — "are  they 
not  great,  mother  I "  But  she  is  looking  in 
your  face,  and  not  at  your  prize. 

"  Take  them,  mother,"  and  you  lay  the 
basket  upon  her  lap. 

"  Thank  you,  Paul,  I  do  not  wish  them  : 
but  you  must  give  some  to  Bella." 

And  away  you  go  to  find  laughing,  play- 
ful,  cousin  Isabel.  And  we  sit  down  to- 
gether on  the  grass,  and  I  pour  out  my 
stores  between  us.  "  You  shall  take,  Bella, 
what  you  wish  in  your  apron,  and  then 
when  study  hours  are  over,  we  will  have 
such  a  time  down  by  the  big  rock  in  the 
meadow !" 

"  But  I  do  not  know  if  papa  will  let  me," 
says  Isabel. 

"Bella,"  I  say,  "do  you  love  your  papa ?" 

"Yes,"  says  Bella,  "  why  not  ?" 

"Because  he  is  so  cold ;  he  does  not  kiss 
you,  Bella,  so  often  as  my  mother  does ; 
and  besides,  when  he  forbids  your  going 
away,  he  does  not  say,  as  mother  does,— 
my  little  girl  will  be  tired,  she  had  better 
not  go, — but  he  says  only, — Isabel  must  not 
go.  I  wonder  what  makes  him  talk  so  ?" 


(64  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

"  Why  Paul,  he  is  a  man,  and  doesn't 

at  any  rate,  I  love  him,  Paul.  Besides,  my 
mother  is  sick,  you  know." 

"But  Isabel,  my  mother  will  be  your 
mother  too.  Come  Bella,  we  will  go  ask  her 
if  we  may  go." 

And  there  I  am,  the  happiest  of  boys, 
pleading  with  the  kindest  of  mothers.  And 
the  young  heart  leans  into  that  mother's 
heart ; — none  of  the  void  now  that  will 
overtake  it  like  an  opening  Korah  gulf,  in 
the  years  that  are  to  come.  It  is  joyous, 
full,  and  running  over ! 

"  You  may  go,"  she  says,  "if  your  uncle 
is  willing." 

"  But  mamma,  I  am  afraid  to  ask  him ; 
I  do  not  believe  he  loves  me." 

"  Don't  say  so,  Paul,"  and  she  draws  you 
to  her  side ;  as  if  she  would  supply  by  her 
own  love,  the  lacking  love  of  a  universe. 

"Go,  with  your  cousin  Isabel,  and  ask 
him  kindly ;  and  if  he  says  no, — make  no 
reply." 

And  with  courage,  we  go  hand  in  hand, 
and  steal  in  at  the  library  door.  There  he 
sits — I  seem  to  see  him  now, — in  the  qld 
wainscotted  room,  covered  over  with  books 
and  pictures ;  and  he  wears  his  heavy- 
rimmed  spectacles,  and  is  poring  over  some 
big  volume,  full  of  hard  words,  that  are  not 
in  any  spelling-book.  We  step  up  softly  ; 


THE  MORNING.  165 

and  Isabel  lays  her  little  hand  upon  his 
arm;  and  he  turns,  and  says — "well,  my 
little  daughter  ?" 

I  ask  if  we  may  go  down  to  the  big  rock 
in  the  meadow  ? 

He  looks  at  Isabel,  and  says  he  is  afraid 
— "we  cannot  go." 

"  But  why,  uncle  ?  It  is  only  a  little  way, 
and  we  will  be  very  careful." 

"  I  am  afraid,  my  children ;  do  not  say 
any  more:  you  can  have  the  pony,  and 
Tray,  and  play  at  home." 

"But,  uncle " 

"You need  say  no  more,  my  child." 

I  pinch  the  hand  of  little  Isabel,  and 
look  in  her  eye, — my  own  half  filling  with 
tears.  I  feel  that  my  forehead  is  flushed, 
and  I  hide  it  behind  Bella's  tresses, — whis- 
pering to  her  at  the  same  time — "let  us 

g°-" 

"What,  sir,"  says  my  uncle,  mistaking 
my  meaning — "do  you  persuade  her  to 
disobey?" 

Now  I  am  angry,  and  say  blindly— "no, 
sir,  I  didn't ! "  And  then  my  rising  pride 
will  not  let  me  say,  that  I  wished  only 
Isabel  should  go  out  with  me. 

Bella  cries;  and  I  shrink  out;  and  am 
not  easy  until  I  have  run  to  bury  my  head 
in  my  mother's  bosom.  Alas !  pride  can- 
not always  find  such  covert !  There  will  be 


1 66  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

times  when  it  will  harrass  you  strangely ; 
when  it  will  peril  friendships,— will  sever 
old,  standing  intimacy;  and  then — no  re- 
source, but  to  feed  on  its  own  bitterness. 
Hateful  pride ! — to  be  conquered,  as  a  man 
would  conquer  an  enemy,  or  it  will  make 
whirlpools  in  the  current  of  your  affections 
-—nay,  turn  the  whole  tide  of  the  heart  into 
rough,  and  unaccustomed  channels  ? 

But  boyhood  has  its  GRIEF  too,  apart 
from  PRIDE. 

You  love  the  old  dog  Tray ;  and  Bella 
loves  him  as  well  as  you.  He  is  a  noble 
old  fellow,  with  shaggy  hair,  and  long  ears, 
and  big  paws,  that  he  will  put  up  into  your 
hand,  if  you  ask  him.  And  he  never  gets 
angry  when  you  play  with  him,  and  tumble 
him  over  in  the  long  grass,  and  pull  his 
silken  ears.  Sometimes,  to  be  sure,  he 
will  open  his  mouth,  as  if  he  would  bite, 
but  when  he  gets  your  hand  fairly  in  his 
jaws,  he  will  scarce  leave  the  print  of  his 
teeth  upon  it.  He  will  swim,  too,  bravely, 
and  bring  ashore  all  the  sticks  you  throw 
upon  the  water ;  and  when  you  fling  a  stone 
to  tease  him,  he  swims  round  and  round, 
and  whines,  and  looks  sorry,  that  he  can- 
not find  it. 

He  will  carry  a  heaping  basket  full  of 
nuts  too  in  his  mouth,  and  never  spill  one 
of  them  ;  and  when  you  come  out  to  your 


THE  MORNING-  16? 

ancle's  home  in  the  spring,  after  staying  a 
whole  winter  in  the  town,  he  knows  you — 
old  Tray  does  !  And  he  leaps  upon  you, 
and  lays  his  paws  on  your  shoulder,  and 
licks  your  face  ;  and  is  almost  as  glad  to  see 
you,  as  cousin  Bella  herself.  And  when 
you  put  Bella  on  his  back  for  a  ride,  he 
only  pretends  to  bite  her  little  feet ; — but 
he  wouldn't  do  it  for  the  world.  Aye, 
Tray  is  a  noble  old  dog  !  ' 

But  one  summer,  the  farmers  say  that 
some  of  their  sheep  are  killed,  and  that  the 
dogs  have  worried  them  ;  and  one  of  them 
comes  to  talk  with  my  uncle  about  it. 

But  Tray  never  worried  sheep  ;  you 
know  he  never  did  ;  and  so  does  nurse ; 
and  so  does  Bella ; — for  in  the  spring,  she 
had  a  pet  lamb,  and  Tray  never  worried  lit- 
tle Fidele. 

And  one  or  two  of  the  dogs  that  belong 
to  the  neighbors  are  shot ;  though  nobody 
knows  who  shot  them  ;  and  you  have  great 
fears  about  poor  Tray  ;  and  try  to  keep  him 
at  home,  and  fondle  him  more  than  ever. 
But  Tray  will  sometimes  wander  off;  till 
finally,  one  afternoon,  he  comes  back  whin- 
ing piteously,  and  with  his  shoulder  all 
bloody. 

Little  Bella  cries  loud  ;  and  you  almost 
cry,  as  nurse  dresses  the  wound  ;  and  poor 
old  Tray  whines  very  sadly.  You  pat  his 


168  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

head,  and  Bella  pats  him  ;  and  you  sit 
down  together  by  him  on  the  floor  of  the 
porch,  and  bring  a  rug  for  him  to  lie  upon  ; 
and  try  and  tempt  him  with  a  little  milk, 
and  Bella  brings  a  piece  of  cake  for  him, — 
but  he  will  eat  nothing.  You  sit  up  till 
very  late,  long  after  Bella  has  gone  to  bed, 
patting  his  head,  and  wishing  you  could  do 
something  for  poor  Tray  ; — but  he  only 
licks  your  hand,  and  whines  more  piteously 
than  ever. 

In  the  morning,  you  dress  early,  and 
hurry  down  stairs  ;  but  Tray  is  not  lying 
on  the  rug  ;'  and  you  run  through  the  house 
to  find  him,  and  whistle,  and  call — Tray! 
— Tray !  At  length  you  see  him  lying  in 
his  old  place,  out  by  the  cherry  tree,  and 
you  run  to  him ; — but  he  does  not  start ; 
and  you  lean  down  to  pat  him, — but  he  is 
cold,  and  the  dew  is  wet  upon  him  : — poor 
Tray  is  dead  ! 

You  take  his  head  upon  your  knees,  and 
pat  again  those  glossy  ears,  and  cry  ;  but 
you  cannot  bring  him  to  life.  And  Bella 
conies,  and  cries  with  you.  You  can  hardly 
bear  to  have  him  put  in  the  ground ;  but 
uncle  says  he  must  be  buried.  So  one  of 
the  workmen  digs  a  grave  under  the  cherry 
tree,  where  he  died — a  deep  grave,  and  they 
round  it  over  with  earth,  and  smooth  the 
sods  upon  it — even  now  I  can  trace  Tray's 
grave. 


THE  MORNING,  169 

You  and  Bella  together,  put  up  a  little 
slab  for  a  tombstone ;  and  she  hangs  flowers 
upon  it,  and  ties  them  there  with  a  bit  of 
ribbon.  You  can  scarce  play  all  that  day ; 
and  afterward,  many  weeks  later,  when  you 
are  rambling  over  the  fields,  or  lingering 
by  the  brook,  throwing  off  sticks  into  the 
eddies,  you  think  of  old  Tray's  shaggy  coat, 
and  of  his  big  paw,  and  of  his  honest  eye; 
and  the  memory  of  your  boyish  grief  comes 

upon  you  ;  and  you  say  with  tears, 

"  poor  Tray  !"     And  Bella  too,  in  her  sad, 

sweet  tones,  says "poor  old  Tray, — he 

is  dead ! " 


SCHOOL  DAYS. 

THE  morning  was  cloudy  and  threatened 
rain  ;  besides,  it  was  autumn  weather,  and 
the  winds  were  getting  harsh,  and  rustling 
among  the  tree-tops  that  shaded  the  house, 
most  dismally.  I  did  not  dare  to  listen. 
If  indeed,  I  were  to  stay  by  the  bright  fires 
of  home,  and  gather  the  nuts  as  they  fell, 
and  pile  up  the  falling  leaves,  to  make  great 
bonfires,  with  Ben,  and  the  rest  of  the 
boys,  I  should  have  liked  to  listen,  and 
would  have  braved  the  dismal  morning  with 
the  cheerfullest  of  them  all.  For  it  would 
have  been  a  capital  time  to  light  a  fire  in 


170  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

the  little  oven  we  had  built  under  the  wall  ; 
it  would  have  been  so  pleasant  to  warm 
our  fingers  at  it,  and  to  roast  the  great  rus- 
sets on  the  flat  stones  that  made  the  top. 

But  this  was  not  in  store  for  me.  I  had 
bid  the  town  boys  good  bye,  the  day  be- 
fore ;  my  trunk  was  all  packed  ;  I  was  to 
go  away — to  school.  The  little  oven  would 
go  to  ruin — I  knew  it  would.  I  was  to 
leave  my  home.  I  was  to  bid  my  mother 
good  bye,  and  Lilly,  and  Isabel,  and  all  the 
rest ; — and  was  to  go  away  from  them  so 
far,  that  I  should  only  know  what  they 
were  all  doing — in  letters.  It  was  sad. 
And  then  to  have  the  clouds  come  over  on 
that  morning,  and  the  winds  sigh  so  dis- 
mally ; — oh,  it  was  too  bad,  I  thought ! 

It  comes  back  to  me  as  I  lie  here  this 
bright  spring  morning,  as  if  it  were  only 
yesterday.  I  remember  that  the  pigeons 
skulked  under  the  eaves  of  the  carriage 
house,  and  did  not  sit,  as  they  used  to 
do  in  summer,  upon  the  ridge ;  and  the 
chickens  huddled  together  about  the  sta- 
ble doors,  as  if  they  were  afraid  of  the  cold 
autumn.  And  in  the  garden,  the  white 
hollyhocks  stood  shivering,  and  bowed  to 
the  wind,  as  if  their  time  had  come.  The 
yellow  muskmelons  showed  plain  among 
the  frost-bitten  vines,  and  looked  cold,  and 
uncomfortable. 


THE  MORNING,  IJI 

Then  they  were  all  so  kind,  in-doors! 

The  cook  made  such  nice  things  for  my 
breakfast,  because  little  master  was  going ; 
Lilly  would  give  me  her  seat  by  the  fire, 
and  would  put  her  lump  of  sugar  in  my  cup ; 
and  my  mother  looked  so  smiling,  and  so 
tenderly,  that  I  thought  I  loved  her  more 
than  I  ever  did  before.  Little  Ben  was  so 
gay  too  ;  and  wanted  me  to  take  his  jack- 
knife,  if  I  wished  it, — though  he  knew  that 
I  had  a  bran  new  one  in  my  trunk.  The 
old  nurse  slipped  a  little  purse  into  my 
hand,  tied  up  with  a  green  ribbon — with 
money  in  it, — and  told  me  not  to  show  it  to 
Ben  or  Lilly. 

And  cousin  Isabel,  who  was  there  on  a 
visit,  would  come  to  stand  by  my  chair, 
when  my  mother  was  talking  to  me ;  and 
put  her  hand  in  mine,  and  look  up  into  my 
face;  but  she  did  not  say  a  word.  I 
thought  it  was  very  odd;  and  yet  it  did 
not  seem  odd  to  me,  that  I  could  say  noth- 
ing to  her.  I  daresay  we  felt  alike. 

At  length  Ben  came  running  in,  and 
said  the  coach  had  come ;  and  there,  sure 
enough,  out  of  the  window,  we  saw  it — a 
bright  yellow  coach,  with  four  white 
horses,  and  band-boxes  all  over  the  top, 
with  a  great  pile  of  trunks  behind.  Ben 
said  it  was  a  grand  coach,  and  that  he 
should  like  a  ride  in  it ;  and  the  old  nurse 


I7»  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

came  to  the  door,  and  said  I  should  have  a 
capital  time ;  but  somehow,  I  doubted  if 
the  nurse  was  talking  honestly.  I  believe 
she  gave  me  an  honest  kiss  though, — and 
such  a  hug ! 

But  it  was  nothing  to  my  mother's. 
,',Tom  told  me  to  be  a  man,  and  study  like  a 
Trojan ;  but  I  was  not  thinking  about 
'study  then.  There  was  a  tall-boy  in  the 
coach,  and  I  was  ashamed  to  have  him  see 
me  cry ; — so  I  didn't,  at  first.  But  I  re- 
member, as  I  looked  back,  and  saw  little 
Isabel  run  out  into  the  middle  of  the 
street,  to  see  the  coach  go  off,  and  the 
curls  floating  behind  her,  as  the  wind 
freshened,  I  felt  my  heart  leaping  into  my 
throat,  and  the  water  coming  into  my  eyes, 
— and  how  just  then,  I  caught  sight  of  the 
tall  boy  glancing  at  me, — and  how  I  tried 
to  turn  it  off,  by  looking  to  see  if  I  could 
button  up  my  great  coat,  a  great  deal 
lower  down  than  the  button  holes  went. 

But  it  was  of  no  use  ;  I  put  my  head  out 
of  the  coach  window,  and  looked  back,  as 
the  little  figure  of  Isabel  faded,  and  then 
the  house,  and  the  trees ;  and  the  tears 
did  come ;  and  I  smuggled  my  handker- 
chief outside  without  turning ;  so  that 
I  could  wipe  my  eyes,  before  the  tall  boy 
should  see  me.  They  say  that  these 
shadows  of  morning  fade,  as  the  sun 


THE  MORNING.  173 

brightens  into  noon-day ;  but  they  are  very 
dark  shadows  for  all  that ! 

Let  the  father,  or  the  mother  think  long, 
before  they  send  away  their  boy — before 
they  break  the  home-ties  that  make  a  web 
of  infinite  fineness  and  soft  silken  meshes 
around  his  heart,  and  toss  him  aloof  into 
the  boy- world,  where  he  must  struggle  up 
amid  bickerings  and  quarrels,  into  his  age 
of  youth  !  There  are  boys  indeed  with  lit- 
tle fineness  in  the  texture  of  their  hearts, 
and  with  little  delicacy  of  soul,  to  whom 
the  school  in  a  distant  village,  is  but  a 
vacation  from  home;  and  with  whom,  a 
return  revives  all  those  grosser  affections 
which  alone  existed  before ;— just  as  there 
are  plants  which  will  bear  all  exposure 
without  the  wilting  of  a  leaf,  and  will 
return  to  the  hot-house  life,  as  strong,  and 
as  hopeful  as  ever.  But  there  are  others, 
to  whom  the  severance  from  the  prattle  of 
sisters,  the  indulgent  fondness  of  a  mother, 
and  the  unseen  influences  of  the  home 
altar,  gives  a  shock  that  lasts  forever ;  it  is 
wrenching  with  cruel  hand,  what  will  bear 
but  little  roughness;  and  the  sobs  with 
which  the  adieux  are  said,  are  sobs  that 
may  come  back  in  the  after  years,  strong, 
and  steady,  and  terrible. 

God  have  mercy  on  the  boy  who  learns 
to  sob  early !  Condemn  it  as  sentiment,  if 


174  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

you  will ;  talk  as  you  will  of  the  fearless 
ness,  and  strength  of  the  boy's  heart, — yet 
there  belong  to  many,  tenderly  strung 
chords  of  affection  which  give  forth  low, 
and  gentle  music,  that  consoles,  and  ripens 
the  ear  for  all  the  harmonies  of  life.  These 
chords  a  little  rude,  and  unnatural  tension 
will  break,  and  break  forever.  Watch  your 
boy  then,  if  so  be  he  will  bear  the  strain ; 
try  his  nature,  if  it  be  rude  or  delicate;  and 
if  delicate,  in  God's  name,  do  not,  as  you 
value  your  peace  and  his,  breed  a  harsh 
youth  spirit  in  him,  that  shall  take  pride 
in  subjugating,  and  forgetting  the  delicacy, 
and  richness  of  his  finer  affections  ! 

1  see  now,  looking  into  the  past,  the 

troops  of  boys  who  were  scattered  in  the 
great  play-ground,  as  the  coach  drove  up 
at  night.  The  school  was  in  a  tall,  stately 
building,  with  a  high  cupola  on  the  top, 
where  I  thought  I  would  like  to  go  up. 
The  schoolmaster,  they  told  me  at  home, 
was  kind ;  he  said  he  hoped  I  would  be  a 
good  boy,  and  patted  me  on  the  head  ;  but 
he  did  not  pat  me  as  my  mother  used  to  do. 
Then  there  was  a  woman,  whom  they  called 
the  Matron ;  who  had  a  great  many  rib- 
bons in  her  cap,  and  who  shook  my  hand, 
—but  so  stiffly,  that  I  didn't  dare  to  look  up 
in  her  face. 

One  boy  took  me  down  to  see  the  school 


THE  MORNING.     .  175 

room,  which  was  in  the  basement,  and  the 
walls  were  all  mouldy,  I  remember ;  and 
when  we  passed  a  certain  door,  he  said, — 
there  was  the  dungeon  ; — how  I  felt !  I 
hated  that  boy ;  but  I  believe  he  is  dead 
now.  Then  the  matron  took  me  up  to  my 
room, — a  little  corner  room,  with  two  beds, 
and  two  windows,  and  a  red  table,  and 
closet ;  and  my  chum  was  about  my  size, 
and  wore  a  queer  roundabout  jacket  with 
big  bell  buttons ;  and  he  called  the  school- 
master— "  Old  Crikey  " — and  kept  me 
awake  half  the  night,  telling  me  how  he 
whipped  the  scholars,  and  how  they  played 
tricks  upon  him.  I  thought  my  chum  was 
a  very  uncommon  boy. 

For  a  day  or  two,  the  lessons  were  easy, 
and  it  was  sport  to  play  with  so  many  "fel- 
lows." But  soon  I  began  to  feel  lonely  at 
night  after  I  had  gone  to  bed.  I  used  to 
wish  I  could  have  my  mother  come,  and 
kiss  me ;  after  school  too,  I  wished  I  could 
step  in,  and  tell  Isabel  how  bravely  I  had 
got  my  lessons.  When  I  told  my  chum 
this,  he  laughed  at  me,  and  said  that  was 
no  place  for  'homesick,  white-livered 
chaps.'  I  wondered  if  my  chum  had  any 
mother. 

We  had  spending  money  once  a  week, 
with  which  we  used  to  go  down  to  the  vil- 
lage store,  and  club  our  funds  together,  to 


176  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

make  great  pitchers  of  lemonade.  Some 
boys  would  have  money  besides  ;  though 
it  was  against  the  rules ;  and  one,  I  recol- 
lect, showed  us  a  five  dollar  bill  in  his  wal- 
let— and  we  all  thought  he  must  be  very 
rich. 

We  marched  in  procession  to  the  village 
church  on  Sundays.  There  were  two  long 
benches  in  the  galleries,  reaching  down 
the  sides  of  the  meeting-house ;  and  on 
these  we  sat.  At  the  first,  I  was  among 
the  smallest  boys,  and  took  a  place  close 
to  the  wall,  against  the  pulpit ;  but  after- 
ward, as  I  grew  bigger,  I  was  promoted  to 
the  lower  end  of  the  first  bench.  This 
I  never  liked ; — because  it  was  close  by  one 
of  the  ushers,  and  because  it  brought  me 
next  to  some  country  women,  who  wore 
stiff  bonnets,  and  eat  fennel,  and  sung  with 
the  choir.  But  there  was  a  little  black- 
eyed  girl,  who  sat  over  behind  the  choir, 
that  I  thought  handsome ;  I  used  to  look 
at  her  very  often;  but  was  careful  she 
should  never  catch  my  eye. 

There  was  another  down  below,  in  a  cor- 
ner pew,  who  was  pretty  ;  and  who  wore  a 
hat  in  the  winter  trimmed  with  fur.  Half 
the  boys  in  the  school  said  they  would 
marry  her  some  day  or  other.  One's  name 
was  Jane,  and  that  of  the  other,  Sophia ; 
which  we  thought  pretty  names,  and  cut 


THE  MORNING.  17? 

them  on  the  ice,  in  skating  time.  But  I 
didn't  think  either  of  them  so  pretty  as 
Isabel. 

Once  a  teacher  whipped  me :  I  bore  it 
bravely  in  the  school :  but  afterward,  at 
night,  when  my  chum  was  asleep,  1  sobbed 
bitterly,  as  I  thought  of  Isabel,  and  Ben, 
and  my  mother,  and  how  much  they  loved 
me;  and  laying  my  face  in  my  hands,  I 
sobbed  myself  to  sleep.  In  the  morning  I 
was  calm  enough : — it  was  another  of  the 
heart  ties  broken,  though  I  did  not  know 
it  then.  It  lessened  the  old  attachment  to 
home,  because  that  home  could  neither 
protect  me,  nor  soothe  me  with  its  sympa- 
thies. Memory  indeed  freshened  and  grew 
strong;  but  strong  in  bitterness,  and  in 
regrets.  The  boy  whose  love  you  cannot 
feed  by  daily  nourishment,  will  find  pride, 
self-indulgence,  and  an  iron  purpose  com- 
ing in  to  furnish  other  supply  for  the  soul 
that  is  in  him.  If  he  cannot  shoot  his 
branches  into  the  sunshine,  he  will  become 
acclimated  to  the  shadow,  and  indifferent 
to  such  stray  gleams  of  sunshine,  as  his 
fortune  may  vouchsafe. 

Hostilities  would  sometimes  threaten 
between  the  school  and  the  village  boys ; 
but  they  usually  passed  off,  with  such  loud, 
and  harmless  explosions,  as  belong  to  the 
wars  of  our  small  politicians.  The  village 


*78  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

champions  were  a  hatter's  apprentice,  and 
a  thick  set  fellow  who  worked  in  a  tannery. 
We  prided  ourselves  especially  on  one 
stout  boy,  who  wore  a  sailor's  monkey 
Jacket.  I  cannot  but  think  how  jaunty 
that  stout  boy  looked  in  that  jacket ;  and 
what  an  Ajax  cast  there  was  to  his  coun- 
tenance !  It  certainly  did  occur  to  me,  to 
compare  him  with  William  Wallace  (Miss 
Porter's  William  Wallace)  and  I  thought 
how  I  would  have  liked  to  have  seen  a 
tussle  between  them.  Of  course,  we  who 
were  small  boys,  limited  ourselves  to  indig- 
nant remark,  and  thought  'we  should  like 
to  see  them  do  it';  and  prepared  clubs 
from  the  wood-shed,  after  a  model  sug- 
gested by  a  New  York  boy,  who  had  seen 
the  clubs  of  the  Policemen. 

There  was  one  scholar, — poor  Leslie, 
who  had  friends  in  some  foreign  country, 
and  who  occasionally  received  letters  bear- 
ing a  foreign  post-mark  : — what  an  extra- 
ordinary boy  that  was  ; — what  astonishing 
letters  ; — what  extraordinary  parents !  I 
wondered  if  I  should  ever  receive  a  letter 
from  'foreign  parts?'  I  wondered  if  I 
should  ever  write  one : — but  this  was  too 
much — too  absurd  !  As  if  I,  Paul,  wearing 
a  blue  jacket  with  gilt  buttons,  and  num- 
ber four  boots,  should  ever  visit  those 
countries  spoken  of  in  the  geographies, 


THE  MORNING.  179 

and  by  learned  travellers  !  No,  no  ;  this 
was  too  extravagant :  but  I  knew  what  I 
would  do,  if  I  lived  to  come  of  age ; — and  I 
vowed  that  I  would, — I  would  go  to  New 
York! 

Number  seven  was  the  hospital,  and  for- 
bidden ground ;  we  had  all  of  us  a  sort  of 
horror  of  number  seven.  A  boy  died  there 
once,  and  oh,  how  he  moaned  ;  and  what  a 
time  there  was  when  the  father  came  ! 

A  scholar  by  the  name  of  Tom  Belton, 
who  wore  linsey  gray,  made  a  dam  across 
a  little  brook  by  the  school,  and  whittled 
out  a  saw-mill,  that  actually  sawed  :  he  had 
genius.  I  expected  to  see  him  before  now 
at  the  head  of  American  mechanics  ;  but 
I  learn  with  pain,  that  he  is  keeping  a 
grocery  store. 

At  the  close  of  all  the  terms  we  had  ex. 
hibitions,to  which  all  the  towns  people  came, 
and  among  them  the  black-eyed  Jane,  and 
the  pretty  Sophia  with  fur  around  her  hat. 
My  great  triumph  was  when  I  had  the  part 
of  one  of  Pizarro's  chieftains,  the  evening 
before  I  left  the  school.  How  I  did  look ! 
I  had  a  moustache  put  on  with  burnt  cork, 
and  whiskers  very  bushy  indeed  ;  and  I 
had  the  militia  coat  of  an  ensign  in  the 
town  company,  with  the  skirts  pinned  up, 
and  a  short  sword  very  dull,  and  crooked, 
which  belonged  to  an  old  gentleman  who 


l8o  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

was  said  to  have  got  it  from  some  privateer, 
who  was  said  to  have  taken  it  from  some 
great  British  Admiral,  in  the  old  wars  : — 
and  the  way  I  carried  that  sword  upon  the 
platform,  and  the  way  I  jerked  it  out,  when 
it  came  to  my  turn  to  say, — "  battle !  bat- 
tle ! — then  death  to  the  armed,  and  chains 
for  the  defenceless  !  " — was  tremendous  ! 

The  morning  after,  in  our  dramatic  hats 
— black  felt,  with  turkey  feathers, — we  took 
our  place  upon  the  top  of  the  coach  to  leave 
the  school.  The  head  master,  in  green 
spectacles,  came  out  to  shake  hands  with 
us, — a  very  awful  shaking  of  hands.  — Poor 
gentleman ! — he  is  in  his  grave  now. 

We  gave  three  loud  hurrahs  "  for  the  old 
school,"  as  the  coach  started;  and  upon 
the  top  of  the  hill  that  overlooks  the  village, 
we  gave  another  round — and  still  another 
for  the  crabbed  old  fellow,  whose  apples 
we  had  so  often  stolen. — I  wonder  if  old 
Bulkeley  is  living  yet  ? 

As  we  got  on  under  the  pine  trees,  I  re- 
called the  image  of  the  black-eyed  Jane, 
and  of  the  other  little  girl  in  the  corner 
pew, — and  thought  how  I  would  come  back 
after  the  college  days  were  over,  — a  man, 
with  a  beaver  hat,  and  a  cane,  and  with  a 
splendid  barouche,  and  how  I  would  take  the 
best  chamber  at  the  inn,  and  astonish  the 
old  school-master  by  giving  him  a  familiar 


THE  MORNING.  181 

tap  on  the  shoulder ;  and  how  I  would  be 
the  admiration,  and  the  wonder  of  the 
pretty  girl,  in  the  fur-trimmed  hat !  Alas, 
how  our  thoughts  outrun  our  deeds  ! 

For  long — long  years,  I  saw  no  more  of 
my  old  school :  and  when  at  length  the 
new  view  came,  great  changes — crashing 
like  tornadoes, — had  swept  over  my  path ! 
I  thought  no  more  of  startling  the  villagers, 
or  astonishing  the  black-eyed  girl.  No, 
no  !  I  was  content  to  slip  quietly  through 
the  little  town,  with  only  a  tear  or  two,  as 
I  recalled  the  dead  ones,  and  mused  upon 
the  emptiness  of  life  ! 


THE  SEA. 

As  I  look  back,  boyhood  with  its  griefs 
and  cares  vanishes  into  the  proud  stateli- 
ness  of  youth.  The  ambition,  and  the 
rivalries  of  the  college  life, — its  first  boast- 
ful importance  as  knowledge  begins  to  dawn 
on  the  wakened  mind,  and  the  ripe,  and 
enviable  complacency  of  its  senior  dignity, 
— all  scud  over  my  memory,  like  this  morn- 
ing breeze  along  the  meadows;  and  like 
that  too,  bear  upon  their  wing,  a  chillness 
— as  of  distant  ice-banks. 

Ben  has  grown  almost  to  manhood  :  Lilly 


r8a  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

is  living  in  a  distant  home ;  and  Isabel  is 
just  blooming  into  that  sweet  age,  where 
womanly  dignity  waits  her  beauty ; — an  age 
that  sorely  puzzles  one  who  has  grown  up 
beside  her, — making  him  slow  of  tongue, 
but  very  quick  of  heart ! 

As  for  the  rest let  us  pass  on. 

The  sea  is  around  me.  The  last  head- 
fends  have  gone  down,  under  the  horizon, 
like  the  city  steeples,  as  you  lose  yourself 
in  the  calm  of  the  country,  or  like  the 
great  thoughts  of  genius,  as  you  slip  from 
the  pages  of  poets,  into  your  own  quiet 
reverie. 

The  waters  skirt  me  right  and  left :  there 
is  nothing  but  water  before,  and  only  water 
behind.  Above  me  are  sailing  clouds,  or 
the  blue  vault,  which  we  call,  with  child- 
ish license — heaven.  The  sails,  white  and 
full,  like  helping  friends  are  pushing  me 
on:  and  night  and  day  are  distent  with 
the  winds  which  come  and  go— none  know 
whence,  and  none  know  whither.  A  land 
bird  flutters  aloft,  weary  with  long  flying; 
and  lost  in  a  world  where  are  no  forests 
but  the  careening  masts,  and  no  foliage  but 
the  drifts  of  spray.  It  cleaves  awhile  to  the 
smooth  spars,  till  urged  by  some  homeward 
yearning,  it  bears  off  in  the  face  of  the 
wind,  and  sinks,  and  rises  over  the  angry 
waters,  until  its  strength  is  gone,  and  the 


THE  MORNING.  183 

blue  waves  gather  the  poor  flutterer  to  their 
cold,  and  glassy  bosom. 

All  the  morning  I  see  nothing  beyond 
me  but  the  waters,  or  a  tossing  company  of 
dolphins;  all  the  noon,  unless  some  white 
sail — like  a  ghost,  stalks  the  horizon,  there 
is  still  nothing  but  the  rolling  seas ;  all  the 
evening,  after  the  sun  has  grown  big  and 
sunk  under  the  water  line,  and  the  moon 
risen,  white  and  cold,  to  glimmer  across 
the  tops  of  the  surging  ocean, — there  is 
nothing  but  the  sea,  and  the  sky,  to  lead 
off  thought,  or  to  crush  it  with  their  great- 
ness. 

Hour  after  hour,  as  I  sit  in  the  moon- 
light upon  the  taffrail,  the  great  waves 
gather  far  back,  and  break, — and  gather 
nearer,  and  break  louder, — and  gather  again, 
and  roll  down  swift  and  terrible  under  the 
creaking  ship,  and  heave  it  up  lightly  upon 
their  swelling  surge,  and  drop  it  gently  to 
their  seething,  and  yeasty  cradle, — like  an 
infant  in  the  swaying  arms  of  a  mother, — 
or  like  a  shadowy  memory,  upon  the  bil- 
lows of  manly  thought. 

Conscience  wakes  in  the  silent  nights  of 
ocean ;  life  lies  open  like  a  book,  and 
spreads  out  as  level  as  the  sea.  Regrets 
and  broken  resolutions  chase  over  the  soul 
like  swift-winged  night-birds,  and  all  the 
unsteady  heights  and  the  wastes  of  action, 


i«4  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

lift  up  distinct,  and  clear,  from  the  uneasy, 
but  limpid  depths  of  memory. 

Yet  within  this  floating  world  I  am  upon, 
sympathies  are  narrowed  down  ;  they  can- 
not range,  as  upon  the  land,  over  a  thou- 
sand objects.  You  are  strangely  attracted 
toward  some  frail  girl,  whose  pallor  has 
now  given  place  to  the  rich  bloom  of  the 
sea  life.  You  listen  eagerly  to  the  chance 
snatches  of  a  song  from  below,  in  the  long 
morning  watch.  You  love  to  see  her  small 
feet  tottering  on  the  unsteady  deck ;  and 
you  love  greatly  to  aid  her  steps,  and  feel 
her  weight  upon  your  arm,  as  the  ship 
lurches  to  a  heavy  sea. 

Hopes  and  fears  knit  together  pleasantly 
upon  the  ocean.  Each  day  seems  to  revive 
them ;  your  morning  salutation,  is  like  a 
welcome  after  absence,  upon  the  shore ; 
and  each  'good  night'  has  the  depth  and 
fullness  of  a  land 'farewell.'  And  beauty 
grows  upon  the  ocean ;  you  cannot  cer- 
tainly say  that  the  face  of  the  fair  girl-voy- 
ager is  prettier  than  that  of  Isabel ; — on, 
no  ! — but  you  are  certain  that  you  cast  in- 
nocent, and  honest  glances  upon  her,  as 
you  steady  her  walk  upon  the  deck,  far 
of tener  than  at  the  first ;  and  ocean  life,  and 
sympathy,  makes  her  kind ;  she  does  not 
resent  your  rudeness,  one  half  so  stoutly, 
as  she  might  upon  the  shore. 


THE  MORNING.  185 

She  will  even  linger  of  an  evening- 
pleading  first  with  the  mother,  and  stand- 
ing  beside  you, — her  white  hand  not  very 
far  from  yours  upon  the  rail, — look  down 
where  the  black  ship  flings  off  with  each 
plunge,  whole  garlands  of  emeralds  ;  or  she 
will  look  up  (thinking  perhaps  you  are 
looking  the  same  way)  into  the  skies,  in 
search  of  some  stars — which  were  her 
neighbors  at  home.  And  bits  of  old  tales 
will  come  up,  as  if  they  rode  upon  the 
ocean  quietude  ;  and  fragments  of  half  for- 
gotten poems,  tremulously  uttered, — either 
by  reason  of  the  rolling  of  the  ship,  or 
some  accidental  touch  of  that  white  hand. 

But  ocean  has  its  storms,  when  fear  will 
make  strange,  and  holy  companionship; 
and  even  here,  my  memory  shifts  swiftly 
and  suddenly. 

It  is  a  dreadful  night.  The  passen- 
gers are  clustered,  trembling,  below.  Every 
plank  shakes  ;  and  the  oak  ribs  groan,  as  if 
they  suffered  with  their  toil.  The  hands 
are  all  aloft ;  the  captain  is  forward  shout- 
ing to  the  mate  in  the  cross-trees,  and  I  am 
clinging  to  one  of  the  stanchions,  by  the 
binnacle.  The  ship  is  pitching  madly,  and 
the  waves  are  toppling  up,  sometimes  as 
high  as  the  yard-arm,  and  then  dipping 
away  with  a  whirl  under  our  keel,  that 
makes  every  timber  in  the  vessel  quiver. 
13 


j86  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

The  thunder  is  roaring  like  a  thousand 
cannons ;  and  at  the  moment,  the  sky  is 
cleft  with  a  stream  of  fire,  that  glares  over 
the  tops  of  the  waves,  and  glistens  on  the 
wet  decks,  and  the  spars,— lighting  up  all 
so  plain,  that  I  can  see  the  men's  faces 
in  the  main-top,  and  catch  glimpses  of  the 
reefers  on  the  yard-arm,  clinging  like  death ; 
— then  all  is  horrible  darkness. 

The  spray  spits  angrily  against  the  can- 
vass ;  the  waves  crash  against  the  weather- 
bow  like  mountains ;  the  wind  howls  through 
the  rigging,  or,  as  a  gasket  gives  way,  the 
sail  bellying  to  leeward,  splits  like  the 
crack  of  a  musket.  I  hear  the  captain  in 
the  lulls,  screaming  out  orders  ;  and  the 
mate  in  the  rigging,  screaming  them  over, 
until  the  lightning  comes,  and  the  thunder, 
deadening  their  voices,  as  if  they  were 
chirping  sparrows. 

In  one  of  the  flashes,  I  see  a  hand  upon 
the  yard-arm  lose  his  foothold,  as  the  ship 
gives  a  plunge ;  but  his  arms  are  clenched 
around  the  spar.  Before  I  can  see  any 
more,  the  blackness  comes,  and  the  thunder, 
with  a  crash  that  half  deafens  me.  I  think 
I  hear  a  low  cry,  as  the  mutterings  die 
away  in  the  distance ;  and  at  the  next  flash 
of  lightning,  which  comes  in  an  instant,  I 
see  upon  the  top  of  one  of  the  waves  along- 
side, the  poor  reefer  who  has  fallen.  The 
lightning  glares  upon  his  face. 


THE  MORNING.  187 

But  he  has  caught  at  a  loose  bit  of  run- 
ning rigging,  as  he  fell;  and  I  see  it  slip, 
ping  off  the  coil  upon  the  deck.  I  shout 
madly — man  overboard! — and  catch  the 
rope,  when  I  can  see  nothing  again.  The 
sea  is  too  high,  and  the  man  too  heavy  for 
me.  I  shout,  and  shout,  and  shout,  and 
feel  the  perspiration  starting  in  great  beads 
from  my  forehead,  as  the  line  slips  through 
my  fingers. 

Presently  the  captain  feels  his  way  aft, 
and  takes  hold  with  me ;  and  the  cook 
comes,  as  the  coil  is  nearly  spent,  and  we 
pull  together  upon  him.  It  is  desperate 
work  for  the  sailor  ;  for  the  ship  is  drifting 
at  a  prodigious  rate ;  but  he  clings  like  a 
dying  man. 

By  and  by  at  a  flash,  we  see  him  on  a 

crest,  two  oars  length  away  from  the  vessel. 

'  Hold  on,  my  man  ! "  shouts  the  captain. 

"  For  God's  sake,  be  quick ! "  says  the 

poor  fellow  ;  and  he  goes  down  in  a  trough 

of  the  sea.     We  pull  the  harder,  and  the 

captain  keeps  calling  to  him  to  keep  up 

courage,  and  hold  strong.     But  in  the  hush, 

we  can  hear  him  say—"  I  can't  hold  out 

much  longer ;— I'm  most  gone ! " 

Presently  we  have  brought  the  man 
where  we  can  lay  hold  of  him,  and  are  only 
waiting  for  a  good  lift  of  the  sea  to  bring 
him  up,  when  the  poor  fellow  groans  out, 


188  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

— "It's  of  no  use — I  can't — good  bye!" 
And  a  wave  tosses  the  end  of  the  rope, 
clean  upon  the  bulwarks. 

At  the  next  flash,  I  see  him  going  down 
under  the  water. 

I  grope  my  way  below,  sick  and  faint  at 
heart ;  and  wedging  myself  into  my  narrow 
berth,  I  try  to  sleep.  But  the  thunder  and 
the  tossing  of  the  ship,  and  the  face  of  the 
drowning  man,  as  he  said  good  bye, — peer- 
ing at  me  from  every  corner,  will  not  let  me 
sleep. 

Afterward,  come  quiet  seas,  over  which 
we  boom  along,  leaving  in  our  track,  at 
night,  a  broad  path  of  phosphorescent 
splendor.  The  sailors  bustle  around  the 
decks,  as  if  they  had  lost  no  comrade ; 
and  the  voyagers  losing  the  pallor  of  fear, 
look  out  earnestly  for  the  land. 

At  length,  my  eyes  rest  upon  the  cov- 
eted fields  of  Britain ;  and  in  a  day  more, 
the  bright  face,  looking  out  beside  me, 
sparkles  at  sight  of  the  sweet  cottages, 
which  lie  along  the  green  Essex  shores. 
Broad  sailed  yachts,  looking  strangely,  yet 
beautifully,  glide  upon  the  waters  of  the 
Thames,  like  swans  ;  black,  square-rigged 
colliers  from  the  Tyne,  lie  grouped  in 
sooty  cohorts;  and  heavy,  three-decked 
Indiamen, — of  which  I  had  read  in  story 
books, — drift  slowly  down  with  the  tide. 


THE  MORNING.  189 

Dingy  steamers,  with  white  pipes,  and 
with  red  pipes,  whiz  past  us  to  the  sea, 
and  now,  my  eye  rests  on  the  great  palace 
of  Greenwich  ;  I  see  the  wooden-legged 
pensioners  smoking  under  the  palace  walls; 
and  above  them  upon  the  hill — as  Heaven 
is  true — that  old,  fabulous  Greenwich,  the 
great  centre  of  school-boy  Longitude. 

Presently,  from  under  a  cloud  of  murky 
smoke  heaves  up  the  vast  dome  of  St. 
Paul's,  and  the  tall  Column  of  the  Fire, 
and  the  white  turrets  of  London  Tower. 
Our  ship  glides  through  the  massive  dock 
gates,  and  is  moored,  amid  the  forest  of 
masts,  which  bears  golden  fruit  for 
Britons. 

That  night,  I  sleep  far  away  from  "the 
old  school,"  and  far  away  from  the  valley 
of  Hillfarm ;  long,  and  late,  I  toss  upon 
my  bed,  with  sweet  visions  in  my  mind,  of 
London  Bridge,  and  Temple  Bar,  and  Jane 
Shore,  and  Falstaff,  and  Prince  Hal,  and 
King  Jamie.  And  when  at  length  I  fall 
asleep,  my  dreams  are  very  pleasant,  but 
they  carry  me  across  the  ocean,  away  from 
the  ship, — away  from  London, — away  even 
from  the  fair  voyager,— to  the  old  oaks,  and 
to  the  brooks,  and — to  thy  side — sweet 
Isabel ! 


igo  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 


THE  FATHER-LAND. 

THERE  is  a  great  contrast  between  the 
easy  deshabille  of  the  ocean  life,  and  the 
prim  attire,  and  conventional  spirit  of  the 
land.  In  the  first,  there  are  but  few  to 
please,  and  these  few  are  known,  and  they 
know  us  ;  upon  the  shore,  there  is  a  world 
to  humor,  and  a  world  of  strangers.  In  a 
brilliant  drawing-room  looking  out  upon 
the  site  of  old  Charing-Cross,  and  upon 
the  one-armed  Nelson,  standing  aloft  at  his 
coil  of  rope,  I  take  leave  of  the  fair  voy- 
ager of  the  sea.  Her  white  neglige  has 
given  place  to  silks  ;  and  the  simple  care- 
less coiffe  of  the  ocean,  is  replaced  by  the 
rich  dressing  of  a  modiste.  Yet  her  face 
has  the  same  bloom  upon  it ;  and  her  eye 
sparkles,  as  it  seems  to  me,  with  a  higher 
pride  ;— and  her  little  hand  has  I  think  a 
tremulous  quiver  in  it,  (I  am  sure  my  own 
has) — as  I  bid  her  adieu,  and  take  up  the 
trail  of  my  wanderings  into  the  heart  of 
England. 

Abuse  her,  as  we  will, — pity  her  starving 
peasantry,  as  we  may, — smile  at  her  court 
pageantry,  as  much  as  we  like, — old  Eng- 
land, is  dear  old  England  still.  Her  cottage 
homes,  her  green  fields,  her  castles,  her 
blazing  firesides,  her  church  spires  are  as 


THE  MORNING.  191 

old  as  song ;  and  by  song  and  story,  we 
inherit  them  in  our  hearts.  This  joyous 
boast,  was,  I  remember,  upon  my  lip,  as  I 
first  trode  upon  the  rich  meadow  of  Runny 
mede  ;  and  recalled  that  GREAT  CHARTER 
wrested  from  the  king,  which  made  the 
first  stepping  stone  toward  the  bounties  of 
our  western  freedom. 

It  is  a  strange  feeling  that  comes  over 
the  Western  Saxon,  as  he  strolls  first  along 
the  green  bye-lanes  of  England,  and  scents 
the  hawthorn  in  its  April  bloom,  and  lin- 
gers at  some  quaint  stile,  to  watch  the 
rooks  wheeling  and  cawing  around  some 
lofty  elm  tops,  and  traces  the  carved  gables 
of  some  old  country  mansion  that  lies  in 
their  shadow,  and  hums  some  fragment  of 
charming  English  poesy,  that  seems  made 
for  the  scene !  This  is  not  sight-seeing, 
nor  travel ;  it  is  dreaming  sweet  dreams, 
that  are  fed  with  the  old  life  of  Books. 

I  wander  on,  fearing  to  break  the  dream, 
by  a  swift  step ;  and  winding  and  rising 
between  the  blooming  hedgerows,  I  come 
presently  to  the  sight  of  some  sweet  valley 
below  me,  where  a  thatched  hamlet  lies 
sleeping  in  the  April  sun,  as  quietly  as  the 
dead  lie  in  history  ; — no  sound  reaches  me 
save  the  occasional  clinck  of  the  smith's 
hammer,  or  the  hedgeman's  bill-hook,  or 
the  ploughman's  '  ho-tup  ! '  from  the  hills. 


I92  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

At  evening,  listening  to  the  nightingale,  1 
stroll  wearily  into  some  close-nestled  vil- 
lage, that  I  had  seen  long  ago  from  a  roll- 
ing height.  It  is  far  away  from  the  great 
lines  of  travel; — and  the  children  stop 
their  play  to  have  a  look  at  me,  and  the 
rosy-faced  girls  peep  from  behind  half- 
opened  doors. 

Standing  apart,  and  with  a  bench  on 
either  side  of  the  entrance,  is  the  inn  of  the 
Eagle  and  the  Falcon, — which  guardian 
birds,  some  native  Dick  Tinto  has  pictured 
upon  the  swinging  sign-board  at  the  corner. 
The  hostess  is  half  ready  to  embrace  me, 
and  treats  me  like  a  prince  in  disguise. 
She  shows  me  through  the  tap-room  into  a 
little  parlor,  with  white  curtains,  and  with 
neatly  framed  prints  of  the  old  patriarchs. 
Here,  alone,  beside  a  brisk  fire,  kindled 
with  furze,  I  watch  the  white  flame  leaping 
playfully  through  the  black  lumps  of  coal, 
and  enjoy  the  best  fare  of  the  Eagle  and 
the  Falcon.  If  too  late,  or  too  early  for 
her  garden  stock,  the  hostess  bethinks 
herself  of  some  small  pot  of  jelly  in  an  out- 
of-the-way  cupboard  of  the  house,  and  set- 
ting it  temptingly  in  her  prettiest  dish,  she 
coyly  slips  it  upon  the  white  cloth,  with  a 
modest  regret  that  it  is  no  better ;  and  a 
little  evident  satisfaction — that  it  is  so 
good. 


THE  MORNING.  193 

I  muse  for  an  hour  before  the  glowing 
fire,  as  quiet  as  the  cat  that  has  come  in, 
to  bear  me  company ;  and  at  bed-time,  I 
find  sheets,  as  fresh  as  the  air  of  the  moun- 
tains. 

At  another  time,  and  many  months 
later,  I  am  walking  under  a  wood  of  Scot- 
tish firs.  It  is  near  night-fall,  and  the  fir 
tops  are  swaying,  and  sighing  hoarsely,  in 
the  cool  wind  of  the  Northern  Highlands. 
There  is  none  of  the  smiling  landscape  of 
England  about  me ;  and  the  crags  of  Edin- 
burgh and  Castle  Stirling,  and  sweet  Perth, 
in  its  silver  valley,  are  far  to  the  south- 
ward. The  larchs  of  Athol  and  Bruar 
Water,  and  that  highland  gem — Dunkeld, 
are  passed.  I  am  tired  with  a  morning's 
tramp  over  Culloden  Moor ;  and  from  the 
edge  of  the  wood,  there  stretches  before 
me  in  the  cool  gray  twilight,  broad  fields 
of  heather.  In  the  middle,  there  rise 
against  the  night-sky,  the  turrets  of  a  cas- 
tle; it  is  Castle  Cawdor,  where  King  Dun- 
can was  murdered  by  Macbeth. 

The  sight  of  it  lends  a  spur  to  my  weary 
step ;  and  emerging  from  the  wood,  I 
bound  over  the  springy  heather.  In  an 
hour,  I  clamber  a  broken  wall,  and  come 
under  the  frowning  shadows  of  the  castle. 
The  ivy  clambers  up  here,  and  there,  and 
shakes  Its  uncropped  branches,  and  its 


194  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

dried  berries  over  the  heavy  portal.  I  cross 
the  moat,  and  my  step  makes  the  chains 
of  the  draw-bridge  rattle.  All  is  kept  in 
the  old  state ;  only  in  lieu  of  the  warder's 
horn,  I  pull  at  the  warder's  bell.  The 
echoes  ring,  and  die  in  the  stone  courts ; 
but  there  is  no  one  astir,  nor  is  there  a 
light  at  any  of  the  castle  windows.  I  ring 
again,  and  the  echoes  come,  and  blend 
with  the  rising  night  wind  that  sighs 
around  the  turrets,  as  they  sighed  that 
night  of  murder.  I  fancy — it  must  be  a 
fancy, — that  I  hear  an  owl  scream ;  I  am 
sure  that  I  hear  the  crickets  cry. 

I  sit  down  upon  the  green  bank  of  the 
moat ;  a  little  dark  water  lies  in  the  bot- 
tom. The  walls  rise  from  it  gray,  and 
stern  in  the  deepening  shadows.  I  hum 
chance  passages  of  Macbeth,  listening  for 
the  echoes — echoes  from  the  wall;  and 
echoes  from  that  far  away  time,  when  I 
Stole  the  first  reading  of  the  tragic  story. 

"  Did'st  thou  not  hear  a  noise  ? 
I  heard  the  owl  scream,  and  the  crickets  cry. 
Did  not  you  speak  ? 

When? 

Now. 

As  I  descended  ? 
Ay. 
Hark!" 

And  the  sharp    echo  comes   back 


THE  MORNING. 


195 


'hark!'    And  at  dead  of    night,  in  the 

thatched  cottage  under  the  castle  walls, 
where  a  dark  faced,  Gaelic  woman,  in  plaid 
turban,  is  my  hostess,  I  wake,  startled  by 
the  wind,  and  my  trembling  lips  say  in- 
voluntarily— '  hark  ! ' 

Again,  three  months  later,  I  am  in  the 
sweet  county  of  Devon.  Its  valleys  are 
like  emerald ;  its  threads  of  waters  stretched 
over  the  fields,  by  their  provident  hus- 
bandry, glisten  in  the  broad  glow  of  sum- 
mer, like  skeins  of  silk.  A  bland  old  far- 
mer, of  the  true  British  stamp,  is  my  host. 
On  market  days  he  rides  over  to  the  old 
town  of  Totness  in  a  trim,  black  farmer's 
cart;  and  he  wears  glossy  topped  boots, 
and  a  broad-brimmed  white  hat.  I  take  a 
vast  deal  of  pleasure  in  listening  to  his 
honest,  straight-forward  talk  about  the  im- 
provements of  the  day  and  the  state  of  the 
nation.  I  sometimes  get  upon  one  of  his 
nags,  and  ride  off  with  him  over  his  fields, 
or  visit  the  homes  of  the  laborers,  which 
show  their  gray  roofs,  in  every  charming 
nook  of  the  landscape.  At  the  parish 
church,  I  doze  against  the  high  pew  backs, 
as  I  listen  to  the  see-saw  tones  of  the 
drawling  curate;  and  in  my  half  wakeful 
moments,  the  withered  holly  sprigs  (not 
removed  since  Easter)  grow  upon  my  vision, 
into  Christmas  boughs,  and  preach  ser- 
mons to  me — of  the  days  of  old. 


196  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

Sometimes,  I  wander  far  over  the  hills 
into  a  neighboring  park ;  and  spend  hours 
on  hours,  under  the  sturdy  oaks,  watching 
the  sleek  fallow  deer,  gazing  at  me  with  their 
soft,  liquid  eyes.  The  squirrels,  too,  play 
above  mi.,  with  their  daring  leaps,  utterly 
careless  of  my  presence,  and  the  pheasants 
whir  away  from  my  very  feet. 

On  one  of  these  random  strolls — I  re- 
member it  very  well — when  I  was  idling 
along,  thinking  of  the  broad  reach  of  water 
that  lay  between  me,  and  that  old  forest 
home, — and  beating  off  the  daisy  heads 
with  my  cane,— I  heard  the  tramp  of  horses, 
coming  up  one  of  the  forest  avenues.  The 
sound  was  unusual,  for  the  family,  I  had 
been  told,  was  still  in  town,  and  no  right 
of  way  lay  through  the  park.  There  they 
were,  however : — I  was  sure  it  must  be  the 
family,  from  the  careless  way  in  which  the} 
came  sauntering  up. 

•First,  there  was  a  noble  hound  that  came 
bounding  toward  me, — gazed  a  moment, 
and  turned  to  watch  the  approach  of  the 
little  cavalcade.  Next  was  an  elderly  gen- 
tleman mounted  upon  a  spirited  hunter,  at- 
tended by  a  boy  of  some  dozen  years,  who 
managed  his  pony  with  a  grace,  that  is  a 
part  of  the  English  boy's  education.  Then 
followed  two  older  lads,  and  a  travelling 
phaeton;  in  which  sat  a  couple  of  elderly 


THE  MORNING.  197 

Jadies.  But  what  most  drew  my  attention 
was  a  girlish  figure,  that  rode  beyond  the 
carriage,  upon  a  sleek-limbed  gray.  There 
was  something  in  the  easy  grace  of  her  at- 
titude,  and  the  rich  glow  that  lit  up  her 
face— heightened  as  it  was,  by  the  little 
black  riding  cap,  relieved  with  a  single 
flowing  plume,— that  kept  my  eye.  It  was 
strange,  but  I  thought  that  I  had  seen  such 
a  figure  before,  and  such  a  face,  and  such  an 
eye ;  and  as  I  made  the  ordinary  salutation 
of  a  stranger,  and  caught  her  smile,  I  could 
have  sworn  that  it  was  she— my  fair  com- 
panion of  the  ocean.  The  truth  flashed 
upon  me  in  a  moment.  She  was  to  visit, 
she  had  told  me,  a  friend  in  the  south 
of  England;— and  this  was  the  friend's 
home ;— and  one  of  the  ladies  of  the  car- 
riage  was  her  mother  ;  and  one  of  the  lads, 
the  school-boy  brother,  who  had  teased  her 
on  the  sea. 

I  recal  now  perfectly,  her  frank  manner, 
as  she  ungloved  her  hand  to  bid  me  wel- 
come. I  strolled  beside  them  to  the  steps. 
Old  Devon  had  suddenly  renewed  its  beau- 
ties for  me.  I.  had  much  to  tell  her,  of  the 
little  out-lying  nooks,  which  my  wayward 
feet  had  led  me  to  :  and  she— as  much  to  ask. 
My  stay  with  the  bland  old  farmer  length- 
ened ;  and  two  days  hospitalities  at  the  Park 
ran  over  into  three,  and  four.  There  was 


198  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

hard  galloping  down  those  avenues ;  and 
new  strolls,  not  at  all  lonely,  under  the  stur- 
dy oaks.  The  long  summer  twilight  of 
England  used  to  find  a  very  happy  fellow 
lingering  on  the  garden  terrace, — looking, 
now  at  the  rookery,  where  the  belated  birds 
quarreled  for  a  resting  place,  and  now  down 
the  long  forest  vista,  gray  with  distance, 
and  closed  with  the  white  spire  of  Madbury 
church. 

English  country  life  gains  fast  upon  one 
— very  fast ;  and  it  is  not  so  easy,  as  in  the 
drawing-room  of  Charing  Cross,  to  say — • 
adieu  !  But  it  is  said — very  sadly  said  ;  for 
God  only  knows  how  long  it  is  to  last. 
And  as  I  rode  slowly  down  toward  the  lodge 
after  my  leave-taking,  I  turned  back  again, 
and  again,  and  again.  I  thought  I  saw  her 
standing  still  upon  the  terrace,  though  it 
was  almost  dark ;  and  I  thought — it  could 
hardly  have  been  an  illusion — that  I  saw 
something  white  waving  from  her  hand. 

Her  name — as  if  I  could  forget  it — was 
Caroline  ;  her  mother  called  her — Carry. 
I  wondered  how  it  would  seem  for  me  to 
call  her — Carry !  I  tried  it ; — it  sounded 
well.  I  tried  it — over  and  over, — until  I 
came  too  near  the  lodge.  There  I  threw 
a  half  crown  to  the  woman  who  opened 
the  gate  for  me.  She  curtsied  low,  and 
said — "  God  bless  you,  sir !  " 


THE  MORNING. 


199 


I  liked  her  for  it ;  I  would  have  given  a 
guinea  for  it :  and  that  night,— whether  it 
was^the  old  woman's  benediction,  or  the 
waving  scarf  upon  the  terrace,  I  do  not 
know ;— but  there  was  a  charm  upon  my 
thought,  and  my  hope,  as  if  an  ?ngel  had 
been  near  me. 

It  passed  away  though  in  my  dreams; 
for  I  dreamed  that  I  saw  the  sweet  face  of 
Bella  in  an  English  park,  and  that  she  wore 
a  black  velvet  riding  cap,  with  a  plume ; 
and  I  came  up  to  her  and  murmured,  very 
sweetly,  I  thought,— "Carry,  dear  Carry  R 
and  she  started,  looked  sadly  at  me,  and 
turned  away.  I  ran  after  her,  to  kiss  her 
as  I  did  when  she  sat  upon  my  mother's 
lap,  on  the  day  when  she  came  near  drown- 
ing :  I  longed  to  tell  her,  as  I  did  then— I 
do  love  you.  But  she  turned  her  tearful 
face  upon  me,  I  dreamed ;  and  then,— I  saw 
no  more. 

A  ROMAN  GIRL. 

—I  REMEMBER  the  very  words—"  nonpar^ 
Francese,  Signore,—\  do  not  speak  French, 
bignor  "—said  the  stout  lady,— "but  my 
daughter,  perhaps,  will  understand  you  " 

And  she  called— "  Enrica  /—Enrica!  ve< 
mte,  subito  !  c'2  unforestiere" 


200  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

And  the  daughter  came,  her  light  brown 
hair  falling  carelessly  over  her  shoulders, 
her  rich  hazel  eye  twinkling  and  full  of  life, 
the  colour  coming  and  going  upon  her 
transparent  cheek,  and  her  bosom  heaving 
with  her  quick  step.  With  one  hand  she 
put  back  the  scattered  locks  that  had  fallen 
over  her  forehead,  while  she  laid  the  other 
gently,  upon  the  arm  of  her  mother,  and 
asked  in  that  sweet  music  of  the  south — 
" cosa  volete,  mamma?" 

It  was  the  prettiest  picture  I  had  seen  in 
many  a  day  ;  and  this,  notwithstanding  I 
was  in  Rome,  and  had  come  that  very 
morning  from  the  Palace  of  Borghese. 

The  stout  lady  was  my  hostess,  and 
Enrica — so  fair,  so  young,  so  unlike  in  her 
beauty,  to  other  Italian  beauties,  was  my 
landlady's  daughter.  The  house  was  one 
of  those  tall  houses — very,  very  old,  which 
stand  along  the  eastern  side  of  the  Corso, 
looking  out  upon  the  Piazzo  di  Colonna. 
The  staircases  were  very  tall,  and  dirty,  and 
ihey  were  narrow  and  dark.  Four  flights 
of  stone  steps  led  up  to  the  corridor  where 
they  lived.  A  little  trap  was  in  the  door ; 
and  there  was  a  bell-rope,  at  the  least  touch 
of  which,  I  was  almost- sure  to  hear  tripping 
feet  run  along  the  stone  floor  within,  and 
then  to  see  the  trap  thrown  slyly  back,  and 
those  deep  hazel  eyes  looking  out  upon 


THE  MORNING.  201 

me  ;  and  then  the  door  would  open,  and 
along  the  corridor,  under  the  daughter's 
guidance,  (until  I  had  learned  the  way,)  I 
passed  to  my  Roman  home.  I  was  a  long 
time  learning  the  way. 

My  chamber  looked  out  upon  the  Corso, 
and  I  could  catch  from  it  a  glimpse  of  the 
top  of  the  tall  column  of  Antoninus,  and  of 
a  fragment  of  the  palace  of  the  Governor. 
My  parlor,  which  was  separated  from  the 
apartments  of  the  family  by  a  narrow  cor- 
ridor, looked  upon  a  small  court;  hung 
around  with  balconies.  From  the  upper 
one,  a  couple  of  black-eyed  girls  are  oc- 
casionally looking  out,  and  they  can  almost 
read  the  title  of  my  book,  when  I  sit  by 
the  window.  Below  are  three  or  four 
blooming  ragazze,  who  are  dark-eyed,  and 
have  Roman  luxuriance  of  hair.  The 
youngest  is  a  friend  of  our  Enrica,  and  is 
of  course  frequently  looking  up,  with  all 
the  innocence  in  the  world,  to  see  if  Enrica 
may  be  looking  out. 

Night  after  night,  a  bright  blaze  glows 
upon  my  hearth,  of  the  alder  faggots  which 
they  bring  from  the  Albanian  hills.  Night 
after  night  too,  the  family  come  in,  to  aid 
my  blundering  speech,  and  to  enjoy  the 
rich  sparkling  of  my  faggot  fire.  Little 
Cesare,  a  dark-faced  Italian  boy,  takes  up 
his  position  with  pencil  and  slate,  and 


S02  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

draws  by  the  light  of  the  blaze  genii  and 
castles.  The  old  one-eyed  teacher  of  En- 
rica,  lays  his  snuff  box  upon  the  table,  and 
his  handkerchief  across  his  lap,  and  with 
his  spectacles  upon  his  nose,  and  his  big 
fingers  on  the  lesson,  runs  through  the 
French  tenses  of  the  verb  amare.  The 
father  a  sallow-faced,  keen-eyed  man,  with 
true  Italian  visage,  sits  with  his  arms  upon 
the  elbows  of  his  chair,  and  talks  of  the 
Pope,  or  of  the  weather.  A  spruce  count 
from  the  Marches  of  Ancona,  wears  a  heavy 
watch  seal,  and  reads  Dante  with  furore. 
The  mother,  with  arms  akimbo,  looks 
proudly  upon  her  daughter,  and  counts  her, 
as  well  she  may,  a  gem  among  the  Roman 
beauties. 

The  table  was  round,  with  the  fire  blaz- 
ing on  one  side ;  there  was  scarce  room  for 
but  three  upon  the  other.  Signer  ilmaestro 
was  one — then  Enrica,  and  next — how  well 
I  remember  it — came  myself.  For  I  could 
sometimes  help  Enrica  to  a  word  of  French ; 
and  far  oftener  she  could  help  me  to  a 
word  of  Italian.  Her  face  was  rich,  and 
full  of  feeling;  I  used  greatly  to  love  to 
watch  the  puzzled  expressions  that  passed 
over  her  forehead,  as  the  sense  of  some 
hard  phrase  escaped  her; — and  better  still, 
to  see  the  happy  smile,  as  she  caught  at  a 
glance,  the  thought  of  some  old  scholastic 


THE  MORNING.  2QJ 

Frenchman,  and  transferred  it  into  the 
liquid  melody  of  her  speech. 

She  had  seen  just  sixteen  summers,  and 
only  that  very  autumn  was  escaped  from 
the  thraldom  of  a  convent,  upon  the  skirts  of 
Rome.  She  knew  nothing  of  life,  but  the 
life  of  feeling  ;  and  all  thoughts  of  happi- 
ness, lay  as  yet  in  her  childish  hopes.  It 
was  pleasant  to  look  upon  her  face ;  and  it 
was  still  more  pleasant  to  listen  to  that 
sweet  Roman  voice.  What  a  rich  flow  of 
superlatives,  and  endearing  diminutives, 
from  those  vermillion  lips!  Who  would 
not  have  loved  the  study,  and  who  would 
not  have  loved — without  meaning  it — the 
teacher  ? 

In  those  clays,  I  did  not  linger  long  at 
the  tables  of  lame  Pietro  in  the  Via  Con- 
dotti ;  but  would  hurry  back  to  my  little 

Roman  parlor the  fire  was  so  pleasant ! 

And  it  was  so  pleasant  to  greet  Enrica  with 
her  mother,  even  before  the  one-eyed  maes- 
tro had  come  in ;  and  it  was  pleasant  to 
unfold  the  book  between  us,  and  to  lay  my 
hand  upon  the  page — a  small  page — where 
hers  lay  already.  And  when  she  pointed 
wrong,  it  was  pleasant  to  correct  her — 
over  and  over; — insisting,  that  her  hand 
should  be  here,  and  not  there,  and  lifting 
those  little  fingers  from  one  page,  and  put- 
ting them  down  upon  the  other.  And 


so4  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

sometimes,  half  provoked  with  my  fault- 
finding, she  would  pat  my  hand  smartly 
with  hers  ; — but  when  I  looked  in  her  face 
to  know  what  that  could  mean,  she  would 
meet  my  eye  with  such  a  kind  submission, 
and  half  earnest  regret,  as  made  me  not 
only  pardon  the  offence, — but  tempt  me  to 
provoke  it  again. 

Through  all  the  days  of  Carnival,  when  I 
rode  pelted  with  confetti,  and  pelting  back, 
my  eyes  used  to  wander  up,  from  a  long 
way  off,  to  that  tall  house  upon  the  Corso, 
where  I  was  sure  to  meet,  again  and  again, 
those  forgiving  eyes,  and  that  soft  brown 
hair,  all  gathered  under  the  little  brown 
sombrero,  set  off  with  one  pure  white 
plume.  And  her  hand  full  of  bon-bons,  she 
would  shake  at  me  threateningly;  and  laugh 
— a  musical  laugh — as  I  bowed  my  head  to 
the  assault,  and  recovering  from  the  shower 
of  missiles,  would  turn  to  throw  my  stoutest 
bouquet  at  her  balcony.  At  night,  I  would 
bear  home  to  the  Roman  parlor,  my  best 
trophy  of  the  day,  as  a  guerdon  for  Enrica; 
and  Enrica  would  be  sure  to  render  in  ac- 
knowledgment, some  carefully  hidden  flow- 
ers, the  prettiest  that  her  beauty  had  won. 

Sometimes  upon  those  Carnival  nights, 
she  arrays  herself  in  the  costume  of  the 
Albanian  water-carriers ;  and  nothing,  one 
would  think  could  be  prettier,  than  the 


THE  MORNING.  205 

laced  crimson  jacket,  and  the  strange  head 
gear  with  its  trinkets,  and  the  short  skirts 
leaving  to  view  as  delicate  an  ankle  as 
could  be  found  in  Rome.  Upon  another 
night,  she  glides  into  my  little  parlor,  as 
we  sit  by  the  blaze,  in  a  close  velvet  bod- 
dice,  and  with  a  Swiss  hat  caught  up  by 
a  looplet  of  silver,  and  adorned  with  a  full 
blown  rose — nothing  you  think  could  be 
prettier  than  this.  Again,  in  one  of  her 
girlish  freaks,  she  robes  herself  like  a  nun; 
and  with  the  heavy  black  serge,  for  dress, 
and  the  funereal  veil, — relieved  only  by  the 
plain  white  ruffle  of  her  cap — you  wish  she 
were  always  a  nun.  But  the  wish  vanishes, 
when  you  see  her  in  a  pure  white  muslin, 
with  a  wreath  of  orange  blossoms  about 
her  forehead,  and  a  single  white  rose-bud 
in  her  bosom. 

Upon  the  little  balcony  Enrica  keeps  a 
pot  or  two  of  flowers,  which  bloom  all  win- 
ter long :  and  each  morning,  I  find  upon 
my  table  a  fresh  rose  bud  ;  each  night,  1 
bear  back  for  thank-offering,  the  prettiest 
bouquet  that  can  be  found  in  the  Via  Con- 
dotti.  The  quiet  fire-side  evenings  come- 
back ; — in  which  my  hand  seeks  its  wonted 
place  upon  her  book ;  and  my  other,  will 
creep  around  upon  the  back  of  Enrica's 
chair,  and  Enrica  will  look  indignant, — 
and  then  all  forgiveness. 


ao6  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

One  day  I  received  a  large  pacquet  of 
letters  : — ah,  what  luxury  to  lie  back  in  my 
big  arm-chair,  there  before  the  crackling 
faggots,  with  the  pleasant  rustle  of  that 
silken  dress  beside  me,  and  run  over  a  sec- 
ond, and  a  third  time,  those  mute  paper 
missives,  which  bore  to  me  over  so  many 
miles  of  water,  the  words  of  greeting,  and 
of  love !  It  would  be  worth  travelling  to 
the  shores  of  the  ./Egean,  to  find  one's 
heart  quickened  into  such  life  as  the  ocean 
letters  will  make.  Enrica  threw  down  her 
book,  and  wondered  what  could  be  in 
them  ? — and  snatched  one  from  my  hand, 
and  looked  with  sad,  but  vain  intensity 
over  that  strange  scrawl. — What  can  it  be  ? 
— said  she ;  and  she  laid  her  finger  upon 
the  little  half  line—"  Dear  Paul." 

I  told  her  it  was — "  Caro  mio." 

Enrica  laid  it  upon  her  lap,  and  looked 
in  my  face;  "It  is  from  your  mother?" 
said  she. 

"No,"  said  I. 

"  From  your  sister  ?  "  said  she. 

"Alas,  no!" 

"  //  vostro  fratello,  dunque  ?  " 

"Nemmeno" — said  I — "not  from  a  bro- 
ther either." 

She  handed  me  the  letter,  and  took  up 
her  book ;  and  presently  she  laid  the  book 
down  again ;  and  looked  at  the  letter,  and 
then  at  me ; — and  went  out. 


THE  MORNING.  xf 

She  did  not  come  in  again  that  evening; 
in  the  morning,  there  was  no  rose-bud  on 
my  table.  -And  when  I  came  at  night, 
with  a  bouquet  from  Pietro's  at  the  corner, 
she  asked  me — "who  ha4  written  my  let- 
ter?" 

"A  very  dear  friend,"  said  I. 

"A  lady?"  continued  she. 

"  A  lady,"  said  I. 

"  Keep  this  bouquet  for  her,"  said  she, 
and  put  it  in  my  hands. 

"  But,  Enrica,  she  has  plenty  of  flowers : 
she  lives  among  them,  and  each  morning 
her  children  gather  them  by  scores  to 
make  garlands  of." 

Enrica  put  her  fingers  within  my  hand  to 
take  again  the  bouquet ;  and  for  a  moment 
I  held  both  fingers  and  flowers. 

The  flowers  slipped  out  first. 

I  had  a  friend  at  Rome  in  that  time,  who 
afterward  died  between  Ancona  and  Cor- 
inth: we  were  sitting  one  day  upon  a  block  of 
tufa  in  the  middle  of  the  Coliseum,  looking 
up  at  the  shadows  which  the  waving  shrubs 
upon  the  southern  wall,  cast  upon  the 
ruined  arcades  within,  and  listening  to  the 
chirping  sparrows  that  lived  upon  the 
wreck, — when  he  said  to  me  suddenly — 
"  Paul,  you  love  the  Italian  girl. 

"  She  is  very  beautiful,"  said  I. 

"  I  think  she  is  beginning  to  love  you," 
Said  he,  soberly. 


jo8  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

"  She  has  a  very  warm  heart,  I  believe," 
said  I. 

"Aye,"  said  he. 

"  But  her  feelings  are  those  of  a  girl," 
continued  I. 

"  They  are  not,"  said  my  friend  ;  and  he 
laid  his  hand  upon  my  knee,  and  left  off 
drawing  diagrams  with  his  cane,—"  I  have 
seen,  Paul,  more  than  you  of  this  southern 
nature.  The  Italian  girl  of  fifteen  is  a 
woman  ; — an  impassioned,  sensitive,  tender 
creature — yet  still  a  woman  ;  you  are  lov- 
ing— if  you  love — a  full-grown  heart ;  she 
is  loving — if  she  loves — as  a  ripe  heart 
should." 

"  But  I  do  not  think  that  either  is  wholly 
true,"  said  I. 

"  Try  it,"  said  he,  setting  his  cane  down 
firmly,  and  looking  in  my  face. 

"  How  ?"  returned  I. 

"  I  have  three  weeks  upon  my  hands," 
continued  he.  "  Go  with  me  into  the  Appe- 
nines  ;  leave  your  home  in  the  Corso,  and 
see  if  you  can  forget  in  the  air  of  the 
mountains,  your  bright-eyed  Roman  girl !" 

I  was  pondering  for  an  answer,  when  he 
went  on  : — "It  is  better  so  :  love  as  you 
might,  that  southern  nature  with  all  its 
passion,  is  not  the  material  to  build 
domestic  happiness  upon ;  nor  is  your 
northern  habit — whatever  you  may  think  at 


THE  MORNING.  205 

your  time  of  life,  the  one  to  cherish  always 
those  passionate  sympathies  which  are 
bred  by  this  atmosphere,  and  their  scenes." 

One  moment  my  thought  ran  to  my  little 
parlor,  and  to  that  fairy  figure,  and  to  that 
sweet  angel  face  :  and  then,  like  lightning 
it  traversed  oceans,  and  fed  upon  the  old 
ideal  of  home,  and  brought  images  to  my 
eye  of  lost — dead  ones,  who  seemed  to  be 
stirring  on  heavenly  wings,  in  that  soft 
Roman  atmosphere,  with  greeting,  and 
with  beckoning. 

"  I  will  go  with  you,"  said  I. 

The  father  shrugged  his  shoulde- s,when 
I  told  him  I  was  going  to  the  mountains, 
and  wanted  a  guide.  His  wife  said  it  would 
be  cold  upon  the  hills,  for  the  winter  was 
not  ended.  Enrica  said  it  would  be  warm 
in  the  valleys,  for  the  spring  was  coming. 
The  old  man  drummed  with  his  fingers  on 
the  table,  and  shrugged  his  shoulders  again, 
but  said  nothing. 

My  landlady  said  I  could  not  ride.  Ce- 
sare  said  it  would  be  hard  walking.  En- 
rica asked  papa,  if  there  would  be  any 
danger  ?  And  again  the  old  man  shrug. 

fed  his  shoulders.     Again  I  asked  him,  if 
e  knew  a  man  who  would  serve  us  as 
guide  among  the  Appenines  ;  and  finding 
me  determined,  he  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
and  said  he  would  find  one  the  next  day 


2io  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

As  I  passed  out  at  evening,  on  my  way 
to  the  Piazzo  near  the  Monte  Citorio, 
where  stand  the  carriages  that  go  out  to 
Tivoli,  Enrica  glided  up  to  me,  and  whis- 
pered— "ah,  mi  displace  tanto tanto, 

Signer!" 


THE  APPENINES. 

I  SHOOK  her  hand,  and  in  an  hour  after- 
ward  svas  passing  with  my  friend,  by  the 
Trajan  forum,  toward  the  deep  shadow  of 
San  Maggiore,  which  lay  in  our  way  to  the 
mountains.  At  sunset,  we  were  wandering 
over  the  ruin  of  Adrian's  villa,  which  lies 
upon  the  first  step  of  the  Apperiines.  Be- 
hind us,  the  vesper  bells  of  Tivoli  were 
sounding,  and  their  echoes  floating  sweetly 
under  the  broken  arches ;  before  us,  stretch- 
ing all  the  way  to  the  horizon,  lay  the 
broad  Campagna ;  while  in  the  middle  of 
its  great  waves,  turned  violet-colored,  by 
the  hues  of  twilight,  rose  the  grouped 
towers  of  the  Eternal  City  ;  and  lording 
it  among  them  all,  like  a  giant,  stood  the 
black  dome  of  St.  Peter's. 

Day  after  day  we  stretched  on  over  the 
mountains,  leaving  the  Campagna  far  be- 
hind us.  Rocks  and  stones,  huge  and 
ragged,  lie  strewed  over  the  surface  right 


THE  MORNING, 


and  left ;  deep  yawning  valleys  lie  in  the 
shadows  of  mountains,  that  loom  up 
thousands  of  feet,  bearing  perhaps  upon 
their  tops  old  castellated  towns,  perched 
like  birds'  nests.  •  But  mountain  and  valley 
are  blasted  and  scarred  ;  the  forests  even, 
are  not  continuous,  but  struggle  for  a  live- 
lihood ;  as  if  the  brimstone  fire  that  con- 
sumed Nineveh,  had  withered  their  ener- 
gies. Sometimes,  our  eyes  rest  on  a  great 
white  scar  of  the  broken  calcareous  rock, 
on  which  the  moss  cannot  grow,  and  the 
lizards  dare  not  creep.  Then  we  see  a 
cliff  beetling  far  aloft,  with  the  shining 
walls  of  some  monastery  of  holy  men  glis- 
tening at  its  base.  The  wayside  brooks  do 
not  seem  to  be  the  gentle  offspring  of  bount- 
iful hills,  but  the  remnants  of  something 
greater,  whose  greatness  has  expired  ;— they 
are  turbid  rills,  rolling  in  the  bottom  of 
yawning  chasms.  Even  the  shrubs  have  a 
look,  as  if  the  Volscian  war-horse  had 
trampled  them  down  to  death;  and  the 
primroses  and  the  violets  by  the  mountain 
path,  alone  look  modestly  beautiful  amid 
the  ruin. 

Sometimes,  we  loiter  in  a  valley,  above 
which  the  goats  are  browsing  on  the  cliffs, 
and  listen  to  the  sweet  pastoral  pipes  of  the 
Appenines.  We  see  the  shepherds  in  their 
rough  skin  coats,  high  over  our  heads. 


aa  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

Their  herds  are  feeding,  as  it  seems,  on 
ledges  of  a  hand's  breadth.  The  sweet 
sound  floats  and  lingers  in  the  soft  atmos- 
phere, without  a  breath  of  wind  to  bear  it 
away,  or  a  noise  to  disturb  its  melody. 
The  shadows  slant  more  and  more  as  we 
linger ;  and  the  kids  begin  to  group  togeth- 
er. And  as  we  wander  on,  through  the 
stunted  vineyards  in  the  bottom  of  the  val- 
ley, the  sweet  sound  flows  after  us,  like  a 
river  of  song, — nor  leaves  us,  till  the  kids 
have  vanished  in  the  distance,  and  the 
cliffs  themselves,  become  one  dark  wall  of 
shadow. 

At  night,  in  some  little  meagre  mountain 
town,  we  stroll  about  in  the  narrow  pass- 
ways,  or  wander  under  the  heavy  arches 
of  the  mountain  churches.  Shuffling  old 
women  grope  in  and  out ;  dim  lamps  glim- 
mer faintly  at  the  side  altars,  shedding  hor- 
rid light  upon  painted  images  of  the  dying 
Christ.  Or  perhaps,  to  make  the  old  pile 
more  solemn,  there  stands  some  bier  in  the 
middle,  with  a  figure  or  two  kneeling  at  the 
foot,  and  ragged  boys  move  stealthily  under 
the  shadows  of  the  columns.  Presently 
comes  a  young  priest,  in  black  robes,  and 
lights  a  taper  at  the  foot,  and  another  at 
the  head — for  there  is  a  dead  man  on  the 
bier ;  and  the  parched,  thin  features  look 
awfully  under  the  yellow  light  of  the  tapers, 


THE  MORNING.  213 

fa  the  gloom  of  the  great  building.  It  is 
very,  very  damp  in  the  church,  and  the 
body  of  the  dead  man  seems  to  make  the 
air  heavy,  so  we  go  out  into  the  starlight 
again. 

In  the  morning,  the  western  slopes  wear 
broad  shadows,  and  the  frosts  crumple,  on 
the  herbage,  to  our  tread  :  across  the  valley, 
it  is  like  summer  ;  and  the  birds — for  there 
are  songsters  in  the  Appenines, —  make 
summer  music.  Their  notes  blend  softly 
with  the  faint  sounds  of  some  far  off  con- 
vent belli  tolling  for  morning  mass,  and 
strike  the  frosted  and  shaded  mountain  side, 
with  a  sweet  echo.  As  we  toil  on,  and  the 
shaded  hills  begin  to  glow  in  the  sunshine, 
we  pass  a  train  of  mules,  loaded  with  wine. 
We  have  seen  them  an  hour  before — lit- 
tle black  dots  twining  along  the  white 
fitreak  of  foot-way  upon  the  mountain  above 
us.  We  lost  them  as  we  began  to  ascend, 
until  a  wild  snatch  of  an  Appenine  song 
turned  our  eyes  up,  and  there,  straggling 
through  the  brush,  they  appeared  again  ; 
afoot^slip  would  have  brought  the  mules 
and  wine  casks  rolling  upon  us.  We  keep 
still,  holding  by  the  brushwood,  to  let 
them  pass.  An  hour  more,  and  we  see 
them  toiling  slowly, — mule  and  muleteer, — 
big  dots,  and  little  dots, — far  down  where 
we  have  been  before.  The  sun  is  hot  and 


2i4  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

smoking  on  them  in  the  bare  valleys  ;  the 
sun  is  hot  and  smoking  on  the  hill-side, 
where  we  are  toiling  over  the  broken  stones. 
I  thought  of  little  Enrica,  when  she  said 
the  spring  was  coming  ! 

Time  and  again,  we  sit  down  together — 
my  friend  and  I — upon  some  fragment  of 
rock,  under  the  broad-armed  chestnuts, 
that  fringe  the  lower  skirts'  of  the  moun- 
tains,  and  talk  through  the  hottest  of  the 
noon,  of  the  warriors  of  Sylla,  and  of  the 
Sabine  women, — but  oftener — of  the  pretty 
peasantry,  and  of  the  sweet-faced  Roman 
girl.  He  too  tells  me  of  his  life  and  loves, 
and  of  the  hopes  that  lie  misty  and  grand 
before  him  : — little  did  we  think  that  in  so 
few  years,  his  hopes  would  be  gone,  and 
his  body  lying  low  in  the  Adriatic,  or  tost 
with  the  drift  upon  the  Dalmatian  shores  \ 
Little  did  I  think,  that  here  under  the  an< 
cestral  wood, — still  a  wishful  and  blunder- 
ing mortal,  I  should  be  gathering  up  the 
shreds,  that  memory  can  catch  of  our  Ap- 
penine  wandering,  and  be  weaving  them 
into  my  bachelor  dreams. 

Away  again  upon  the  quick  wing  of 
thought,  I  follow  our  steps,  as  after  weeks 
of  wandering,  we  gained  once  more  a 
height  that  overlooked  the  Campagna— 
and  saw  the  sun  setting  on  its  edge,  throw- 
ing into  relief  the  dome  of  St.  Peter's,  and 


THE  MORNING.  215 

blazing  in  a  red  stripe  upon  the  waters  of 
the  Tiber. 

Below  us  was  Palestrina — the  Praneste 
of  the  poets  and  philosophers ; — the  dwell- 
ing  place  of — I  know  not  how  many— Em- 
perors. We  went  straggling  through  the 
dirty  streets,  searching  for  some  tidy-look- 
ing osteria.  At  length,  we  found  an  old 
iady,  who  could  give  us  a  bed,  but  no  din- 
ner. My  friend  dropped  in  a  chair  dis- 
heartened. A  snub-looking  priest  came 
out  to  condole  with  us. 

And  could  Palestrina,  —  the  frigidum 
Prceneste  of  Horace,  which  had  entertained 
over  and  over,  the  noblest  of  the  Colonna, 
and  the  most  noble  Adrian — could  Pales- 
trina not  furnish  a  dinner  to  a  tired  traveller? 
"Si,  Signore"  said  the  snub-looking 
priest. 

"  Si,  Signorino"  said  the  neat  old  lady ; 
and  away  we  went  upon  a  new  search.  And 
we  found  bright  and  happy  faces; — espe- 
cially the  little  girl  of  twelve  years,  who 
came  close  by  me  as  I  ate,  and  afterward 
strung  a  garland  of  marigolds,  and  put  it 
on  my  head.  Then  there  was  a  bright- 
eyed  boy  of  fourteen,  who  wrote  his  name, 
and  those  of  the  whole  family,  upon  a  fly 
leaf  of  my  book :  and  a  pretty,  saucy-look- 
ing girl  of  sixteen,  who  peeped  a  long  time 
from  behind  the  kitchen  door,  but  before 


«i6  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

the  evening  was  gone,  she  was  in  the  chah 
beside  me,  and  had  written  her  name — 
Carlotta — upon  the  first  leaf  of  my  journal. 
When  I  woke,  the  sun  was  up.  From 
my  bed  I  could  see  over  the  town,  the  thin, 
lazy  mists  lying  on  the  old  camp-ground  of 
Pyrrhus ;  beyond  it,  were  the  mountains, , 
which  hide  Frascati,  and  Monte-Cavl 
There  was  old  Colonna  too,  that — 

Like  an  eagle's  nest,  hangs  on  the  crest 
Of  purple  Appenine. 

As  the  mist  lifted,  and  the  sun  bright- 
ened the  plain,  I  could  see  the  road,  along 
which  Sylla  came  fuming  and  maddened 
after  the  Mithridaten  war.  I  could  see,  as 
I  half  dreamed  and  half-slept,  the  fright- 
ened peasantry  whooping  to  their  long- 
horned  cattle,  as  they  drove  them  on  tumul- 
tuously  up  through  the  gateways  of  the 
town ;  and  women  with  babies  in  their 
arms,  and  children  scowling  with  fear  and 
hate — all  trooping  fast  and  madly,  to 
escape  the  hand  of  the  Avenger  ; — alas  ! 
ineffectually,  for  Sylla  murdered  them,  and 
pulled  down  the  walls  of  their  town — the 
proud  Palestrina! 

I  had  a  queer  fancy  of  seeing  the  nobles 
of  Rome,  led  on  by  Stefano  Colonna,  group- 
ing along  the  plain,  their  corslets  flashing 


THE  MORNING.  arj 

out  of  the  mists, — their  pennants  dashing 
above  it, — coming  up  fast,  and  still  as  the 
wind,  to  make  the  Mural  Praeneste,  their 
stronghold  against  the  Last  of  the  Trib- 
unes. And  strangely  mingling  fiction  with 
fact,  I  saw  the  brother  of  Walter  de  Mont 
real,  with  his  noisy  and  bristling  army$ 
crowd  over  the  Campagna,  and  put  up  his 
white  tents,  and  hang  out  his  showy  ban- 
ners, on  the  grassy  knolls  that  lay  nearest 
my  eye. 

But  the  knolls  were  all  quiet ;  there 

was  not  so  much  as  a  strolling  coniadino 
on  them,  to  whistle  a  mimic  fife-note.  A 
little  boy  from  the  inn  went  with  me  upon 
the  hill,  to  look  out  upon  the  town  and  the 
wide  sea  of  land  below ;  and  whether  it 
was  the  soft,  warm  April  sun,  or  the  gray 
ruins  below  me,  or  whether  the  wonderful 
silence  of  the  scene,  or  some  wild  gush  of 
memory,  I  do  not  know,  but  something 
made  me  sad. 

"  Perche  cosi  pens  eras  o  ? — why  so  sad  ?  " 
said  the  quick-eyed  boy.  "The  air  is 
beautiful,  the  scene  is  beautiful ;  Signore 
is  young,  why  is  he  sad  ?  " 

"  And  is  Giovanni  never  sad  ?  "  said  I. 

"  Quasi  mat, "  said  the  boy,  "  and  if  I 
could  travel  as  Signore,  and  see  other 
countries,  I  would  be  always  gay." 

"  May  you  be  always  that !  "  said  I. 


9l8  REVERIES  OP"  A  BACHELOR. 

The  good  wish  touched  him ;  he  took 
me  by  the  arms,  and  said — "Go  home 
with  me,  Signore ;  you  were  happy  at  the 
inn  last  night  j  go  back,  and  we  will  make 
you  gay  again  ! ' 

If  we  could  be  always  boys ! 

I  thanked  him  in  a  way  that  saddened 
him.  We  passed  out  shortly  after  from 
the  city  gates,  and  strode  on  over  the  roll- 
ing plain.  Once  or  twice  we  turned  back 
to  look  at  the  rocky  heights  beneath  which 
lay  the  ruined  town  of  Palestrina ; — a  city 
that  defied  Rome, — that  had  a  king  before 
a  ploughshare  had  touched  the  Capitoline, 
or  the  Janiculan  hill !  The  ivy  was  cover- 
ing up  richly  the  Etruscan  foundations, 
and  there  was  a  quiet  over  the  whole 
place.  The  smoke  was  rising  straight  into 
the  sky  from  the  chimney  tops ;  a  peasant 
or  two,  were  going,  along  the  road  with 
donkeys ;  beside  this,  the  city  was,  to  all 
appearance,  a  dead  city.  And  it  seemed 
to  me  that  an  old  monk,  whom  I  could  see 
with  my  glass,  near  the  little  chapel  above 
the  town,  might  be  going  to  say  mass  for 
the  soul  of  the  dead  city. 

And  afterward,  when  we  came  near  to 
Rome,  and  passed  under  the  temple  tomb 
of  Metella, — my  friend  said — "And  will 
you  go  back  now  to  your  home?  or  will 
you  set  off  with  me  to-morrow  for  An- 
cona  ?  " 


THE  MORNING.  219 

"  At  least,  I  must  say  adieu,"  returned  I. 

,  "God    speed  you!"    said  he,   and  we 

parted  upon  the  Piazza  di  Venezia, — he  for 

his  last  mass  at  St.  Peter's,  and  I  for  the 

tall  house  upon  the  Corso. 


ENRICA. 

I  HEAR  her  glancing  feet,  the  moment  I 
have  tinkled  the  bell; — and  there  she  is, 
with  her  brown  hair  gathered  into  braids, 
and  her  eyes  full  of  joy,  and  greeting. 
And  as  I  walk  with  the  mother  to  the  win- 
dow to  look  at  some  pageant  that  is  pass- 
ing,— she  steals  up  behind,  and  passes 
her  arm  around  me,  with  a  quick  electric 
motion,  and  a  gentle  pressure  of  welcome 
— that  tells  more  than  a  thousand  words. 

It  is  a  pageant  of  death  that  is  passing 
below.  Far  down  the  street,  we  see  heads 
thrust  out  of  the  windows,  and  standing  in 
bold  relief  against  the  red  torch-light  of 
the  moving  train.  Below,  dim  figures  are 
gathering  on  the  narrow  side  ways  to  look 
at  the  solemn  spectacle.  A  hoarse  chant 
rises  louder,  and  louder;  and  half  dies  in 
the  night  air,  and  breaks  out  again  with 
ftew,  and  deep  bitterness. 

Now,  the  first  torch-light  under  us  shines 


MO  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

plainly  on  faces  in  the  windows,  and  on 
the  kneeling  women  in  the  street.  First, 
come  old  retainers  of  the  dead  one,  bearing 
long  blazing  flambeaux.  Then  comes  a 
company  of  priests,  two  by  two,  bare- 
headed, and  every  second  one  with  a  light- 
ed torch,  and  all  are  chanting. 

Next,  is  a  brotherhood  of  friars  in  brown 
cloaks,  with  sandalled  feet ; — and  the  red- 
light  streams  full  upon  their  grizzled  heads. 
They  add  their  heavy  guttural  voices  to  the 
chant,  and  pass  slowly  on. 

Then  comes  a  company  of  priests,  in 
white  muslin  capes,  and  black  robes,  and 
black  caps, — bearing  books  in  their  hands, 
wide  open,  and  lit  up  plainly  by  the  torches 
of  churchly  senators,  who  march  beside 
them ;  and  from  the  books,  the  priests 
chant  loud  and  solemnly.  Now  the  music 
is  loudest ;  and  the  friars  take  up  the  dis- 
mal notes  from  the  white-capped  priests, 
and  the  priests  before  catch  them  from  the 
brown-robed  friars,  and  mournfully  the 
sound  rises  up  between  the  tall  buildings, 
— into  the  blue  night-sky  that  lies  between 
Heaven  and  Rome. 

— "  Vedc — vcdc  !" — says  Cesare;  and  in 
a  blaze  of  the  red-torch  fire,  comes  the  bier, 
borne  on  the  necks  of  stout  friars ;  and  on 
the  bier,  is  the  body  of  a  dead  man,  hab- 
ited like  a  priest.  Heavy  plumes  of  black 
wave  at  each  corner. 


THE  MORNING.  22: 

•— "  Hist ! "  says  my  landlady. 

The  body  is  just  under  us.  Enrica  cross- 
es  herself ;  her  smile  is  for  the  moment 
gone.  Cesare's  boy-face  is  grown  sudden- 
ly earnest.  We  could  see  the  pale  youth- 
ful features  of  the  dead  man.  The  glaring 
flambeaux,  sent  their  flaunting  streams  of 
unearthly  light  over  the  wan  visage  of  the 
sleeper.  A  thousand  eyes  were  looking 
on  him  ;  but  his  face  careless  of  them  all, 
was  turned  up,  straight  toward  the  stars. 

Still  the  chant  rises  ;  and  companies  of 
priests  follow  the  bier,  like  those  who  had 
gone  before.  Friars,  in  brown  cloaks,  and 
prelates  and  Carmelites  come  after — all 
with  torches.  Two  by  two — their  voices 
growing  hoarse — they  tramp,  and  chant. 

For  a  while  the  voices  cease,  and  you 
can  hear  the  rustling  of  their  robes,  and 
their  foot-falls,  as  if  your  ear  was  to  the 
earth.  Then  the  chant  rises  again,  as  they 
glide  on  in  a  wavy,  shining  line,  and  rolls 
back  over  the  death-train,  like  the  howling 
of  a  wind  in  winter. 

As  they  pass,  the  faces  vanish  from  the 
windows.  The  kneeling  women  upon  the 
pavement,  rise  up,  mindful  of  the  paroxysm 
of  Life  once  more.  The  groups  in  the  door- 
ways scatter.  But  their  low  voices  do  not 
drown  the  voices  of  the  host  of  mourners, 
and  their  ghost-like  music. 


832  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

I  look  long  upon  the  blazing  bier,  trail- 
ing under  the  deep  shadows  of  the  Roman 
palaces,  and  at  the  stream  of  torches,  wind- 
ing like  a  glittering,  scaled  serpent. It 

is  a  priest — say  I  to  my  landlady,  as  she 
closes  the  window. 

"  No,  signor, — a  young  man  never  mar- 
ried, and  so  by  virtue  of  his  condition,  they 
put  on  him  the  priest-robes." 

"  So  I  "—says  the  pretty  Enrica— « if  I 
should  die,  would  be  robed  in  white,  as  you 
saw  me  on  a  carnival  night,  and  be  followed 
by  nuns  for  sisters." 

"  A  long  way  off  may  it  be,  Enrica ! " 

She  took  my  hand  in  hers,  and  pressed 
it.  An  Italian  girl  does  not  fear  to  talk  of 
death ;  and  we  were  talking  of  it  still,  as 
we  walked  back  to  my  little  parlor — my 
hand  all  the  time  in  hers — and  sat  down 
by  the  blaze  of  my  fire. 

It  was  holy  week — never  had  Enrica 
looked  more  sweetly  than  in  that  black 
dress, — under  that  long,  dark  veil  of  the 
days  of  Lent.  Upon  the  broad  pavement 
of  St.  Peter's, — where  the  people  flocking 
by  thousands,  made  only  side  groups  about 
the  altars  of  the  vast  temple — I  have 
watched  her  kneeling,  beside  her  mother, 
—her  eyes  bent  down,  her  lips  moving 
earnestly,  and  her  whole  figure  tremulous 
with  deep  emotion.  Wandering  around 


THE  MORNING.  223 

among  the  halberdiers  of  the  Pope,  and 
the  court  coats  of  Austria,  and  the  bare- 
footed  pilgrims  with  sandal,  shell  and  staff, 
I  would  sidle  back  again,  to  look  upon  that 
kneeling  figure;  and  leaning  against  the 
huge  columns  of  the  church,  would  dream 
even  as  I  am  dreaming  now. 

At  night-fall,  I  urge  my  way  into  the 
Sistine  Chapel:  Enrica  is  beside  me, — 
looking  with  me  upon  the  gaunt  figures  of 
the  Judgment  of  Angelo.  They  are  chant- 
ing the  Miserere.  Thetwelve  candle-sticks 
by  the  altar  are  put  out  one  by  one,  as  the 
service  continues.  The  sun  has  gone  down, 
and  only  the  red  glow  of  twilight  steals 
through  the  dusky  windows.  There  is  a 
pause,  and  a  brief  reading  from  a  red- 
cloaked  cardinal,  and  all  kneel  down.  She 
kneels  beside  me :  and  the  sweet,  mournful 
flow  of  the  Miserere  begins  again, — grow- 
ing  in  force,  and  depth,  till  the  whole  chapel 
rings,  and  the  balcony  of  the  choir  trembles : 
then,  it  subsides  again  into  the  low  soft 
wail  of  a  single  voice — so  prolonged — so 
tremulous,  and  so  real,  that  the  heart  aches, 
and  the  tears  start for  Christ  is  dead ! 

Lingering  yet,  the  wail  dies  not 

wholly,  but  just  as  it  seemed  expiring,  it  is 
caught  up  by  another  and  stronger  voice 
that  carries  it  on,  plaintive  as  ever; — nor 
does  it  stop  with  this — for  just  as  you 


»24  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

looked  for  silence,  three  voices  more  begin 
the  lament — sweet,  touching,  mournful 
voices, — and  bear  it  up  to  a  full  cry,  when 
the  wnole  choir  catch  its  burden,  and  make 
the  lament  change  into  the  wailing  of  a 
multitude — wild,  shrill,  hoarse — with  swift 
chants  intervening,  as  if  agony  had  given 
force  to  anguish.  Then,  sweetly,  slowly, 
voice  by  voice,  note  by  note,  the  wailings 
sink  into  the  low,  tender,  moan  of  a  single 
singer — faltering,  tremulous,  as  if  tears 
checked  the  utterance;  and  swelling  out, 
as  if  despair  sustained  it. 

It  was  dark  in  the  chapel,  when  we  went 
out ;  voices  were  low.  Enrica  said  nothing 
1  could  say  nothing. 

I  was  to  leave  Rome  after  Easter ;  I  did 
not  love  to  speak  of  it — nor  to  think  of  it. 
Rome — that  old  city,  with  all  its  misery,  and 
its  fallen  state,  and  its  broken  palaces  of  the 
Empire — grows  upon  one's  heart.  The  fring- 
ing snrubs  of  the  coliseum,  flaunting  their 
blossoms  at  the  tall  beggar-men  m  cloaks, 
who  grub  below, — the  sun  glimmering  over 
the  mossy  pile  of  the  House  of  Nero, — the 
sweet  sunsets  from  the  Pincian,  that  make 
the  broad  pine-tops  of  the  Janiculan,  stand 
sharp  and  dark  against  a  sky  of  gold,  can- 
not easily  be  left  behind.  And  Enrica  with 
her  silver  brown  hair,  and  the  silken  fillet 
that  bound  it, — and  her  deep  hazel  eyes, — 


THE  MORNING.  225 

and  her  white,  delicate  fingers, — and  the 
blue  veins  chasing  over  her  fair  temples 
ah,  Easter  is  too  near ! 

But  it  comes  ;  and  passes  with  the  glory 
of  St.  Peter's — lighted  from  top  to  bottom. 
With  Enrica — I  saw  it  from  the  Ripetta, 
as  it  loomed  up  in  the  distance,  like  a  city 
on  fire. 

The  next  day,  I  bring  home  my  last 
bunch  of  flowers,  and  with  it  a  little  richly- 
chased  Roman  ring.  No  fire  blazes  on  the 
hearth — but  they  are  all  there.  Warm 
days  have  come,  and  the  summer  air,  even 
now,  hangs  heavy  with  fever,  in  the  hollows 
of  the  plain. 

I  heard  them  stirring  early  on  the  morn- 
ing on  which  I  was  to  go  away.  I  do  not 
think  I  slept  very  well  myself — nor  very- 
late.  Never  did  Enrica  look  more  beauti- 
ful— never.  All  her  Carnival  robes,  and 
the  sad  drapery  of  the  FRIDAY  OF  CRUCI- 
FIXION could  not, so  adorn  her  beauty  as 
that  neat  morning  dress,  and  that  simple 
rosebud  she  wore  upon  her  bosom.  She 
gave  it  to  me — the  last — with  a  trembling 
hand.  I  did  not,  for  I  could  not,  thank  her. 
She  knew  it ;  and  her  eyes  were  full. 

The  old  man  kissed  my  cheek — it  was 
the  Roman  custom,  but  the  custom  did  not 
extend  to  the  Roman  girls;  at  least  not 
often.  As  I  passed  down  the  Corso,  I 


226  RE  VERIES  OF  A  BA  CHEL  OR. 

looked  back  at  the  balcony,  where  she  stood 
in  the  time  of  Carnival,  in  the  brown 
Sombrero,  with  the  white  plume.  I  knew 
she  would  be  there  now ;  and  there  she  was. 
My  eyes  dwelt  upon  the  vision,  very  loth 
to  leave  it ;  and  after  my  eyes  had  lost  it, 
my  heart  clung  to  it, — there,  where  my 
memory  clings  now. 

At  noon,  the  carriage  stopped  upon  the 
hills,  toward  Soracte,  that  overlooked 
Rome.  There  was  a  stunted  pine  tree 
grew  a  little  way  from  the  road,  and  I  sat 
down  under  it, — for  I  wished  no  dinner — 
and  I  looked  back  with  strange  tumult  of 
feeling,  upon  the  sleeping  city,  with  the 
gray,  billowy  sea  of  the  Campagna,  lying 
around  it. 

I  seemed  to  see  Enrica — the  Roman  girl, 
in  that  morning  dress,  with  her  brown  hair 
in  its  silken  fillet ; — but  the  rose-bud  that 
was  in  her  bosom,  was  now  in  mine.  Her 
silvery  voice  too,  seemed  to  float  past  me, 
bearing  snatches  of  Roman  songs  ; — but 
the  songs  were  sad  and  broken. 

After  all,  this  is  sad  vanity ! — 

thought  I :  and  yet  if  I  had  espied  then 
some  returning  carriage  going  down  toward 
Rome,  I  will  not  say — but  that  I  should 
have  hailed  it,  and  taken  a  place,— and 
gone  back,  and  to  this  day,  perhaps — have 
lived  at  Rome. 


THE  MORNING.  227 

But  the  vetturino  called  me  ;  the  coach 
was  ready; — I  gave  one  more  look  toward 
the  dome  that  guarded  the  sleeping  city  : 
and  then,  we  galloped  down  the  mountain, 
on  the  road  that  lay  towards  Perugia,  and 
Lake  Thrasimene. 

Sweet  Enrica !  art  thou  living  yet  ? 

Or  hast  thou  passed  away  to  that  Silent 
Land,  where  the  good  sleep,  and  the  beau- 
tiful ? 


The  visions  of  the  Past  fade.  The 
morning  breeze  has  died  upon  the  meadow ; 
the  Bob-o'-Lincoln  sits  swaying  on  the 
willow  tufts — singing  no  longer.  The 
trees  lean  to  the  brook ;  but  the  shadows 
fall  straight  and  dense  upon  the  silver 
stream. 

NOON  has  broken  into  the  middle  sky : 
and  MORNING  is  gone. 


II. 

NOON. 

T^HE  Noon  is    short;   the  sun    never 

1      loiters  on  the  meridian,  nor  does  the 

shadow  on  the  old  dial  by  the  garden, 

stay  long  at  XII.     The  Present,  like  the 

noon,  is  only  a  point ;  and  a  point  so  fine, 

that  it  is  not  measurable  by  the  grossness 

of    action.      Thought    alone    is    delicate 

enough  to  tell  the  breadth  of  the  Present. 

The  Past  belongs  to  God :  the  Present 
only  is  ours.  And  short  as  it  is,  there  is 
more  in  it,  and  of  it,  than  we  can  well 
manage.  That  man  who  can  grapple  it, 
and  measure  it,  and  fill  it  with  his  purpose, 
is  doing  a  man's  work  :  none  can  do  more : 
but  there  are  thousands  who  do  less. 

Short  as  it  is,  the  Present  is  great  and 
strong ; — as  much  stronger  than  the  Past, 
as  fire  than  ashes,  or  as  Death  than  the 
grave.  The  noon  sun  will  quicken  vegeta- 
ble life,  that  in  the  morning  was  dead.  It 
is  hot  and  scorching :  I  feel  it  now  upon 
(228) 


NOON.  229 

my  head  :  but  it  does  not  scorch  and  heat 
like  the  bewildering  Present.  There  are 
no  oak  leaves  to  interrupt  the  rays  of  the 
burning  NOW.  Its  shadows  do  not  fall 
east  or  west ; — like  the  noon,  the  shade  it 
makes,  falls  straight  from  sky  to  earth- 
straight  from  Heaven  to  Hell ! 

Memory  presides  over  the  Past ;  Action 
presides  over  the  Present.  The  first  lives 
in  a.  rich  temple  hung  with  glorious  tro- 
phies, and  lined  with  tombs  :  the  other  has 
no  shrine  but  Duty,  and  it  walks  the  earth 
like  a  spirit ! 

1  called  my  dog  to  me,  and  we 

shared  together  the  meal  that  I  had 
brought  away  at  sunrise  from  the  mansion 
under  the  elms  ;  and  now,  Carlo  is  gnaw- 
ing at  the  bone  that  I  have  thrown  to  him, 
and  I  stroll  dreamily  in  the  quiet  noon 
atmosphere,  upon  that  grassy  knoll,  under 
the  oaks. 

Noon  in  the  country  is  very  still :  the 
birds  do  not  sing  :  the  workmen  are  not 
in  the  field :  the  sheep  lay  their  noses  to 
the  ground  ;  and  the  herds  stand  in  pools, 
under  shady  trees,  lashing  their  sides, — 
but  otherwise  motionless.  The  mills 
upon  the  brook,  far  above,  have  ceased 
for  an  hour  their  labor;  and  the  stream 
softens  its  rustle,  and  sinks  away  from  the 
sedgy  banks.  The  heat  plays  upon  the 


230  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

meadow  in  noiseless  waves,  and  the  beech 
leaves  do  not  stir. 

Thought,  I  said,  was  the  only  measure  of 
the  Present  :  and  the  stillness  of  noon 
breeds  thought :  and  my  thought  brings  up 
the  old  companions,  and  stations  them  in 
the  domain  of  NOW.  Thought  ranges  over 
the  world,  and  brings  up  hopes,  and  fears, 
and  resolves,  to  measure  the  burning  NOW. 
Joy,  and  grief,  and  purpose,  blending  in 
my  thought,  give  breadth  to  the  Present. 

—Where— thought  I— is  little  Isabel 
now  ?  Where  is  Lilly — where  is  Ben  ? 
Where  is  Leslie, — where  is  my  old  teacher  ? 
Where  is  my  chum,  who  played  such  rare 
tricks — where  is  the  black-eyed  Jane  ? — 
Where  is  that  sweet -faced  girl  whom  I 
parted  with  upon  that  terrace,  looking 
down  upon  the  old  spire  of  Modbury 
church  ?  Where  are  my  hopes — where  my 
purposes — where  my  sorrows  ? 

I  care  not  who  you  are — but  if  you  bring 
such  thought  to  measure  the  Present,  the 
present  will  seem  broad  ;  and  it  will  be  sul- 
try as  noon — and  make  a  fever  of  Now. 


EARLY  FRIENDS. 

WHERE  are  they  ? 

I  cannot  sit  now,  as  once,  upon  the  edge 


NOON.  231 

of  the  brook,  hour  after  hour,  flinging  off 
my  line  and  hook  to  the  nibbling  roach, 
and  reckon  it  great  sport.  There  is  no  girl 
with  auburn  ringlets  to  sit  beside  me,  and 
to  play  upon  the  bank.  The  hours  are 
shorter  than  they  were  then ;  and  the  little 
joys  that  furnished  boyhood  till  the  heart 
was  full,  can  fill  it  no  longer.  Poor  Tray  is 
dead,  long  ago  ;  and  he  cannot  swim  into 
the  pools  for  the  floating  sticks  ;  nor  can  I 
sport  with  him  hour  after  hour,  and  think 
it  happiness.  The  mound  that  covers  his 
grave  is  sunken  ;  and  the  trees  that  shad- 
ed it,  are  broken  and  mossy. 

Little  Lilly  is  grown  into  a  woman,  and 
is  married  ;  and  she  has  another  little  Lilly, 
with  flaxen  hair,  she  says, — looking  as  she 
used  to  look.  I  dare  say  the  child  is  pretty ; 
but  it  is  not  my  Lilly.  She  has  a  little  boy 
too,  that  she  calls  Paul ; — a  chubby  rogue — 
she  writes, — and  as  mischievous  as  ever  I 
was.  God  bless  the  boy ! 

Ben, — who  would  have  liked  to  ride  in 
the  coach  that  carried  me  away  to  school — 
has  had  a  great  many  rides  since  then — 
rough  rides,  and  hard  ones,  over  the  road 
of  life.  He  does  not  rake  up  the  falling 
leaves  for  bonfires,  as  he  did  once ;  he  is 
grown  a  man,  and  is  fighting  his  way  some- 
where in  our  western  world,  to  the  short- 
lived honors  of  time.  He  was  married  not 


232  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

long  ago ;  his  wife  I  remembered  as  one  of 
my  playmates  at  my  first  school :  she  was 
beautiful,  but  fragile  as  a  leaf.  She  died 
within  a  year  of  their  marriage.  Ben  was 
but  four  years  my  senior ;  but  this  grief 
has  made  him  ten  years  older.  He  does 
not  say  it ;  but  his  eye  and  his  figure  tell 
it. 

The  nurse  who  put  the  purse  in  my  hand 
that  dismal  morning,  is  grown  a  feeble  old 
woman.  She  was  over  fifty  then ;  she  may 
well  be  seventy  now.  She  did  not  know 
my  voice  when  I  went  to  see  her  the  other 
day,  nor  did  she  know  my  face  at  all.  She 
repeated  the  name  when  I  told  it  to  her — 
Paul,  Paul, — she  did  not  remember  any 
Paul,  except  a  little  boy,  a  long  while  ago. 

"  To  whom  you  gave  a  purse  when 

he  went  away,  and  told  him  to  say  nothing 
to  Lilly  or  to  Ben  ? " 

"Yes,  that  Paul  "—says  the  old 

woman  exultingly — "do  you  know  him  ?  " 

And  when  I  told  her — "she  would  not 
have  believed  it !  "  But  she  did ;  and  took 
hold  of  my  hand  again  (for  she  was  blind) ; 
and  then  smoothed  down  the  plaits  of  her 
apron,  and  jogged  her  cap  strings,  to  look 
tidy  in  the  presence  of  'the  gentleman.' 
And  she  told  me  long  stories  about  the  old 
house  and  how  other  people  came  in  after- 
ward ;  and  she  called  me  '  sir '  sometimes, 


NOON.  233 

and  sometimes  '  Paul.'  But  I  asked  her 
to  say  only  Paul ;  she  seemed  glad  for  this, 
and  talked  easier;  and  went  on  to  tell 
of  my  old  playmates,  and  how  we  used  to 
ride  the  pony — poor  Jacko  ! — and  how  we 
gathered  nuts — such  heaping  piles;  and 
how  we  used  to  play  at  fox  and  geese 
through  the  long  winter  evenings;  and 

how  my  poor  mother  would  smile but 

here  I  asked  her  to  stop.  She  could  not 
have  gone  on  much  longer,  for  I  believe 
she  loved  our  house  and  people,  better  than 
she  loved  her  own. 

As  for  my  uncle,  the  cold,  silent  man, 
who  lived  with  his  books  in  the  house  upon 
the  hill,  and  who  used  to  frighten  me  some- 
times with  his  lc:k,  he  grew  very  feeble 
after  I  had  left,  and  almost  crazed.  The 
country  people  said  that  he  was  mad ;  and 
Isabel  with  her  sweet  heart  clung  to  him, 
and  would  lead  him  out  when  his  step  tot- 
tered, to  the  seat  in  the  garden,  and  read 
to  him  out  of  the  books  he  loved  to  hear. 
And  sometimes,  they  told  me,  she  would 
read  to  him  some  letters  that  I  had  written 
to  Lilly  or  to  Ben,  and  ask  him  if  he  re- 
membered Paul,  who  saved  her  from  drown- 
ing under  the  tree  in  the  meadow?  But 
he  could  only  shake  his  head,  and  mutter 
something  about  how  old  and  feeble  he 
had  grown. 


234  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

They  wrote  me  afterward  that  he  died; 
and  was  buried  in  a  far-away  place,  where 
his  wife  once  lived,  and  where  he  now 
sleeps  beside  her.  Isabel  was  sick  with 
grief,  and  came  to  live  for  a  time  with 
Lilly ;  but  when  they  wrote  me  last,  she 
had  gone  back  to  her  old  home — where 
Tray  was  buried — where  we  had  played 
together  so  often,  through  the  long  days 
of  summer. 

I  was  glad  I  should  find  her  there,  when 
I  came  back.  Lilly  and  Ben  were  both 
living  nearer  to  the  city,  when  I  landed 
from  my  long  journey  over  the  seas ;  but 
still  I  went  to  find  Isabel  first.  Perhaps 
I  had  heard  so  much  oftener  from  the 
others,  that  I  felt  less  eager  to  see  them  ; 
or  perhaps  I  wanted  to  save  my  best  visits 
to  the  last ;  or  perhaps  (I  did  think  it)  per- 
haps I  loved  Isabel,  better  than  them  all. 

So  I  went  into  the  country,  thinking  all 
the  way,  how  she  must  have  changed  since 
I  left.  She  must  be  now  nineteen  or 
twenty ;  and  then  her  grief  must  have  sad- 
dened her  face  somewhat ;  but  I  thought  I 
should  like  her  all  the  better  for  that. 
Then  perhaps  she  would  not  laugh,  and 
tease  me,  but  would  be  quieter,  and  wear  a 
sweet  smile — so  calm,  and  beautiful,  I 
thought.  Her  figure  too  must  have  grown 
more  elegant,  and  she  would  have  more 
dignity  in  her  air. 


NOON. 


I  shuddered  a  little  at  this ;  for  I  thought 
-she  will  hardly  think  so  much  of  me 
then ;  perhaps  she  will  have  seen  those 
whom  she  likes  a  great  deal  better  Per- 
haps  she  will  not  like  me  at  all  •  yet  I 
knew  very  well  that  I  should  like  her 

1  had  gone  up  almost  to  the  house  •  I 
had  passed  the  stream  where  we  fished  on 
that  day,  many  years  before ;  and  I  thought 
that  now  since  she  was  grown  to  woman- 
hood, I  should   never  sit   with  her  there 
again,  and  surely  never  drag  her  as  I  did 
out  of  the  water,  and  never  chafe  her  little 
hands,  and  never  perhaps  kiss  her,  as  I  did 
when  she  sat   upon  my  mother's  lap— oh 
no— no— no ! 

I  saw  where  we  buried  Tray,  but  the 
old  slab  was  gone ;  there  was  no  ribbon 
there  now.  I  thought  that  at  least,  Isabel 
would  have  replaced  the  slab  ;— but  it  was 
a  wrong  thought.  I  trembled  when  I  went 
up  to  the  door— for  it  flashed  upon  me,  that 
perhaps,— Isabel  was  married.  I  could  not 
tell  why  she  should  not;  but  I  knew  it 
would  make  me  uncomfortable,  to  hear' 
that  she  had. 

There  was  a  tall  woman  who  opened  the 
door;  she  did  not  know  me;  but  I  recog- 
nized her  as  one  of  the  old  servants  I 
asked  after  the  housekeeper  first,  thinking 
I  would  surprise  Isabel.  My  heart  fluttered 


236  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

somewhat,  thinking  that  she  might  step  in 
suddenly  herself — or  perhaps  that  she 
might  have  seen  me  coming  up  the  hill. 
But  even  then,  I  thought,  she  would  hardly 
know  me. 

Presently  the  housekeeper  came  in,  look- 
ing very  grave  ;  she  asked  if  the  gentleman 
wished  to  see  her  ? 

The  gentleman  did  wish  it,  and  she  sat 
down  on  one  side  of  the  fire ; — for  it  was 
autumn,  and  the  leaves  were  falling,  and 
the  November  winds  were  very  chilly. 

— Shall  I  tell  her — thought  I — who  I  am, 
or  ask  at  once  for  Isabel  ?  I  tried  to  ask  ; 
but  it  was  hard  for  me  to  call  her  name ;  it 
was  very  strange,  but  I  could  not  pronounce 
it  at  all. 

"Who,  sir?" — said  the  housekeeper,  in  a 
tone  so  earnest,  that  I  rose  at  once,  and 
crossed  over,  and  took  her  hand  : — "You 
know  me,"  said  I, — "you  surely  remember 
Paul  ?" 

She  started  with  surprise,  but  recovered 
herself  and  resumed  the  same  grave  man- 
ner. I  thought  I  had  committed  some  mis- 
take, or  been  in  some  way  cause  of  offence. 
I  called  her — Madame,  and  asked  for — 
Isabel  ? 

She  turned  pale,  terribly  pale—"  Bella  ?" 
said  she. 

"Yes,  Bella." 


NOON. 


237 


«  Sir— Bella  is  dead  !" 

I  dropped  into  my  chair.  I  said  nothing. 
The  housekeeper— bless  her  kind  heart  !-- 
slipped  noiselessly  out.  My  hands  were 
over  my  eyes.  The  winds  were  sighino- 
outside,  and  the  clock  ticking  mournfully 
within. 

I  did  not  sob,  nor  weep,  nor  utter  any 
cry. 

The  clock  ticked  mournfully,  and  the 
winds  were  sighing ;  but  I  did  not  hear 
them  any  longer ;  there  was  a  tempest  rag- 
mg  within  me,  that  would  have  drowned 
the  voice  of  thunder. 

It  broke  at  length  in  a  long,  deep  sigh,- 
"oh  God!"— said  I.  It  may  have  been  a 
prayer ;— it  was  not  an  imprecation. 

Bella— sweet  Bella  was  dead  !  It  seemed 
as  if  with  her,  half  the  world  were  dead— 
every  bright  face  darkened— every  sunshine 
blotted  out,— every  flower  withered,— every 
hope  extinguished ! 

I  walked  out  into  the  air,  and  stood  un- 
der the  trees  where  we  had  played  together 
with  poor  Tray-where  Tray  lay  buried 
But  it  was  not  Tray  I  thought  of,  as  I  stood 
there,  with  the  cold  wind  playing  throuo-h 
my  hair  and  my  eyes  filling  with  tear's. 
How  could  she  die  ?  Why  was  she  gone  ? 
Was  it  really  true  ?  Was  Isabel  indeed 
dead— in  her  coffin— buried?  Then  why 


238  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

should  anybody  live  ?  What  was  there  to 
live  for,  now  that  Bella  was  gone  ? 

Ah,  what  a  gap  in  the  world,  is  made  by 
the  death  of  those  we  love !  It  is  no  longer 
whole,  but  a  poor  half-world,  that  swings 
uneasy  on  its  axis,  and  makes  you  dizzy 
with  the  clatter  of  its  wreck ! 

The  housekeeper  told  me  all — little  by 
little,  as  I  found  calmness  to  listen.  She 
had  been  dead  a  month;  Lilly  was  with 
her  through  it  all ;  she  died  sweetly,  with- 
out pain,  and  without  fear, — what  can  an- 
gels fear  ?  She  had  spoken  often  of  'Cous- 
in Paul ; '  she  had  left  a  little  pacquet  for 
him,  but  it  was  not  there ;  she  had  given 
it  into  Lilly's  keeping. 

Her  grave,  the  housekeeper  told  me, 
was  only  a  little  way  off  from  her  home — 
beside  the  grave  of  a  brother  who  died  long 
years  before.  I  went  there  that  evening. 
The  mound  was  high  and  fresh.  The  sods 
had  not  closed  together,  and  the  dry  leaves 
caught  in  the  crevices,  and  gave  a  ragged 
and  a  terrible  look  to  the  grave.  The  next 
day,  I  laid  them  all  smooth — as  we  had 
once  laid  them  on  the  grave  of  Tray  ; — 1 
clipped  the  long  grass,  and  set  a  tuft  oi 
blue  violets  at  the  foot,  and  watered  it  all 
with — tears.  The  homestead,  the  trees, 
the  fields,  the  meadows — in  the  windy  No- 
vember, looked  dismally.  I  could  not  like 


NOON.  2<J5 

them  again  ;— I  liked  nothing,  but ,  the  lit- 
tle mound,  that  I  had  dressed  over  Bella's 
grave.  There  she  sleeps  now, — the  sleep 
of  Death ! 

SCHOOL  REVISITED. 

THE  old  school  is  there  still,— with  the 
high  cupola  upon  it,  and  the  long  galleries, 
with  the  sleeping  rooms  opening  out  on 
either  side,  and  the  corner  one,  where  I 
slept.  But  the  boys  are  not  there,  nor  the 
old  teachers.  They  have  ploughed  up  the 
play-ground  to  plant  corn,  and  the  apple 
tree  with  the  low  limb,  that  made  our  gym- 
nasium, is  cut  down. 

I  was  there  only  a  little  time  ago.  It 
was  on  a  Sunday.  One  of  the  old  houses 
of  the  village  had  been  fashioned  into  a 
tavern,  and  it  was  there  I  stopped.  But  I 
strolled  by  the  old  one,  and  looked  into  the 
bar-room,  where  I  used  to  gaze  with  won- 
der upon  the  enormous  pictures  of  wild  an- 
imals,  which  heralded  some  coming  me- 
nagerie. There  was  just  such  a  picture 
hanging  s.till,  and  two  or  three  advertise- 
ments  of  sheriffs,  and  a  little  bill  of  a  <  horse 
stolen, 'and— as  I  thought— the  same  brown 
pitcher  on  the  edge  of  the  Bar.  I  was  sure 
it  was  the  same  great  wood  box  that  stood 


240  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

by  the  fire  place,  and  the  same  whip,  and 
great  coat  hung  in  the  corner. 

I  was  not  in  so  gay  costume,  as  I  once 
thought  I  would  be  wearing,  when  a  man  ; 
I  had  nothing  better  than  a  rusty  shooting 
jacket ;  but  even  with  this,  I  was  deter- 
mined to  have  a  look  about  the  churchj 
and  see  if  I  could  trace  any  of  the  faces  of 
the  old  times.  They  had  sadly  altered  the 
building;  they  had  cut  out  its  long  galler- 
ies, and  its  old  fashioned  square  pews,  and 
filled  it  with  narrow  boxes,  as  they  do  in 
the  city.  The  pulpit  was  not  so  high,  or 
grand ;  and  it  was  covered  over  with  the 
work  of  the  cabinet-makers. 

I  missed  too  the  old  preacher,  whom  we 
all  feared  so  much  ;  and  in  place  of  him,  was 
a  jaunty  looking  man,  whom  I  thought  I 
would  not  be  at  all  afraid  to  speak  to,  or  if 
need  be,  to  slap  on  the  shoulder.  And 
when  I  did  meet  him  after  church,  I  looked 
him  in  the  eye  as  boldly  as  a  lion — what  a 
change  was  that,  from  the  school  days  ! 

Here  and  there,  I  could  detect  about  the 
church,  some  old  farmer,  by  the  stoop  in 
his  shoulders,  or  by  a  particular  twist  in 
his  nose  ;  and  one  or  two  young  fellows, 
who  used  to  storm  into  the  gallery  in  my 
school  days,  in  very  gay  jackets,  dressed  off 
with  ribbons, — which  we  thought  was 
astonishing  heroism,  and  admired  accord- 


NOON. 


241 


ingly,— were  now  settled  away  into  fathers 
of  families  ;  and  looked  as  demure,  and 
peaceable,  at  the  head  of  their  pews,  with 
a  white-headed  boy  or  two  between  them, 
and  their  wives,  as  if  they  had  been  mar- 
ried all  their  days. 

There  was  a  stout  man  too,  with  a  slight 
limp  in  his  gait,  who  used  to  work  on  har- 
nesses, and  strap  our  skates,  and  who  I 
always  thought  would  have  made  a  capital 
Vulcan, — he  stalked  up  the  aisle  past  me, 
-as  if  I  had  my  skates  strapped  at  his  shop, 
only  yesterday. 

The  bald-pated  shoemaker,  who  never 
kept  his  word,  and  who  worked  in  the  brick 
shop,  and  who  had  a  son  called  Theodore, 
—which  we  all  thought  a  very  pretty  name 
for  a  shoemaker's  son — I  could  not  find. 
If  eared  he  might  be  dead.  I  hoped,  if  he 
was,  that  his  broken  promises  about  patch- 
ing boots,  would  not  come  up  against  him. 
The  old  factor  of  tamarinds  and  sugar 
crackers,  who  used  to  drive  his  covered 
wagon  every  Saturday  evening  into  the 
play-ground,  I  observed,  still  holding  his  ' 
place  in  the  village  choir ;  and  singing— 
though  with  a  tooth  or  two  gone, — as 
serenely,  and  obstreporously  as  ever. 

I  looked  around  the  church,  to  find  the 
black-eyed  girl  who  always  sat  behind  the 
choir, — the  one  I  loved  to  look  at  so  much, 


242  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

I  knew  she  must  be  grown  up ;  but  I 
could  fix  upon  no  face  positively  ;  once,  as 
a  stout  woman  with  a  pair  of  boys,  and 
who  wore  a  big  red  shawl,  turned  half 
around,  I  thought  I  recognized  her  nose. 
If  it  was  she,  it  had  grown  red  though ; 
and  I  felt  cured  of  my  old  fondness.  As 
for  the  other,  who  wore  the  hat  trimmed 
with  fur — she  was  nowhere  to  be  seen, 
among  either  maids,  or  matrons ;  and 
when  I  asked  the  tavern-keeper,  and 
described  her,  and  her  father,  as  they  were 
in  my  school-days,  he  told  me  that  she  had 
married  too,  and  lived  some  five  miles  from 
the  village  ;  and  said  he, — "  I  guess  she 
leads  her  husband  a  devil  of  a  life  !" 

I  felt  cured  of  her  too  ;  but  I  pitied  the 
husband. 

One  of  my  old  teachers  was  in  the 
church ;  I  could  have  sworn  to  his  face ;  he 
was  a  precise  man  ;  and  now  I  thought  he 
looked  rather  roughly  at  my  old  shooting 
jacket.  But  I  let  him  look,  and  scowled  at 
him  a  little ;  for  I  remembered  that  he  had 
feruled  me  once.  I  thought  it  was  not 
probable  that  he  would  ever  do  it  again. 

There  was  a  bustling  little  lawyer  in  the 
village,  who  lived  in  a  large  house,  and  who 
was  the  great  man  of  that  town  and  country, 
— he  had  scarce  changed  at  all ;  and  he 
stepped  into  the  church  as  briskly,  and 


NOON. 


promptly,  as  he  did  ten  years  ago.      But 
what  struck  me  most,  was  the  change  in  a 
couple  of  pretty,  little,  white-haired   girls, 
that  at  the  time  I  left,  were  of  that  uncer- 
tain age,  when  the  mother  lifts  them  on  a 
bunday,  and  pounces  them  down  one  after 
the  other  upon  the  seat  of  the  pew  ;  _  these 
were  now   grown  into    blooming    youn°- 
ladies.     And  they  swept  by  me  in  the  ve?- 
tibule  of  the  church,  with  a  flutter  of  robes, 
and  a  grace  of  motion,  that  fairly  made  my 
heart  twitter  in  my  bosom.     I  know  no- 
thing  that   brings   home   upon  a  man   so' 
quick,  the  consciousness  of  increasing  years, 
as  to  find  the  little   prattling    girls,  that 
were  almost  babies  in  his  boyhood—  become 
dashing  ladies  ;—  and   to  find    those  whom 
he  used  to  look  on  patronizingly,  and  com- 
passionately—thinking   they  were    little 
&lrls  —  grown  to   such   maturity,  that    the 
mere  rustle  of  their  silk  dress  will  give  him 
a  twinge;    and  their  eyes,  if   he  looks  at 
them  —  make  him  unaccountably  shy 

After  service  I  strolled  up  by  the  school 
buildings;  I  traced  the  names  that  we  had 
cut  upon  the  fence;  but  the  fence  had 
grown  brown  with  age,  and  was  nearly 
rotted  away.  Upon  the  beech  tree  in  the 
hollow  behind  the  school,  the  carvings 
were  all  overgrown.  It  must  have  been 
vacation,  if  indeed  there  tvas  any  school  at 


244  RE  VERIES  OF  A  BA  CHEL  OR. 

all ;  for  I  could  see  only  one  old  woman 
about  the  premises,  and  she  was  hanging 
out  a  dishcloth,  to  dry  in  the  sun.  I 
passed  on  up  the  hill,  beyond  the  buildings, 
where  in  the  boy-days,  we  built  stone  forts 
with  bastions  and  turrets ;  but  the  farmers 
had  put  bastions,  and  turrets,  into  their  cob- 
ble-stone walls.  At  the  orchard  fence,  I 
stopped,  and  looked — from  force,  I  believe, 
of  old  habit, — to  see  if  any  one  were  watch- 
ing ; — and  then  leaped  over,  and  found  my 
way  to  the  early  apple  tree  ;  but  the  fruit 
'had  gone  by.  It  seemed  very  daring  in 
me,  even  then,  to  walk  so  boldly  in  the  for- 
bidden ground. 

But  the  old  head-master  who  forbade  it, 
was  dead  ;  and  Russell  and  Burgess,  and  I 
know  not  how  many  others,  who  in  other 
times,  were  culprits  with  me,  were  dead 
too.  When  I  passed  back  by  the  school,  I 
lingered  to  look  up  at  the  windows  of  that 
corner  room,  where  I  had  slept  the  sound, 
healthful  sleep  of  boyhood, — and  where  too 
I  had  passed  many — many  wakeful  hours, 
thinking  of  the  absent  Bella,  and  of  my 
home. 

— How  small,  seem  now,  the  great 
griefs  of  boyhood!  Light  floating  clouds 
will  obscure  the  sun  that  is  but  half  risen ; 
but  let  him  be  up— mid-heaven,  and  the 
cloud  that  then  darkens  the  land,  must  be 
thick,  and  heavy  indeed. 


NOON.  245 

The  tears  started  from  my  eyfes  •-- 

was  not  such  a  cloud  over  me  now  ? 


COLLEGE. 

SCHOOL-MATES  slip  out  of  sight  and 
knowledge,  and  are  forgotten ;  or  if  you 
meet  them,  they  bear  another  character: 
the  boy  is  not  there.  It  is  a  new  acquaint- 
ance  that  you  make,  with  nothing  of  your 
fallow  upon  the  benches,  but  the  name. 
1  hough  the  eye  and  face  cleave  to  your 
memory,  and  you  meet  them  afterward 
and  think  you  have  met  a  friend— the 
voice  or  the  action  will  break  down  the 
charm,  and  you  find  only— another  man 

But  with  your  classmates,  in  that  later 
school,  where  form  and  character  were 
both  nearer  ripeness,  and  where  knowledge 
labored  for  together,  bred  the  first  manly 
sympathies,— it  is  different.  And  as  you 
meet  them,  or  hear  of  them,  the  thought  of 
their  advance  makes  a  measure  of  your 
own— it  makes  a  measure  of  the  NOW 

You  judge  of  your  happiness,  by  theirs, 
—of  your  progress,  by  theirs,  and  of  your 
prospects,  by  theirs.  If  one  is  happy/you 
seek  to  trace  out  the  way  by  which  he  has 
wrought  his  happiness  ;  you  consider  how 


246      .       REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR.          ( 

it  differs  from  your  own  ;  and  you  think 
with  sighs,  how  you  might  possibly  have 
wrought  the  same ;  but  now  it  has  escaped. 
If  another  has  won  some  honorable  distinc- 
tion, you  fall  to  thinking,  how  the  man — 
your  old  equal,  as  you  thought,  upon  the 
college  benches — has  outrun  you.  It  pricks 
to  effort,  and  teaches  the  difference  be- 
tween now,  and  then.  Life  with  all  its  du- 
ties and  hopes,  gathers  upon  your  Present, 
like  a  great  weight,  or  like  a  storm  ready 
to  burst.  It  is  met  anew ;  it  pleads  more 
strongly  ;  and  action  that  has  been  neglect- 
ed, rises  before  you — a  giant  of  remorse. 

Stop  not,  loiter  not,  look  not  backward, 
if  you  would  be  among  the  foremost !  The 
great  Now,  so  quick,  so  broad,  so  fleeting, 
is  yours  ; — in  an  hour  it  will  belong  to  the 
Eternity  of  the  Past.  The  temper  of  Life 
is  to  be  made  good  by  big  honest  blows ; 
stop  striking,  and  you  will  do  nothing; 
strike  feebly,  and  you  will  do  almost  as 
little.  Success  rides  on  every  hour  :  grap- 
ple it,  and  you  may  win :  but  without  a 
grapple,  it  will  never  go  with  you.  Work 
is  the  weapon  of  honor,  and  who  lacks  the 
weapon,  will  never  triumph. 

There  were  some  seventy  of  us — all 
scattered  now.  I  meet  one  here  and  there 
at  wide  distances  apart;  and  we  talk  to- 
gether of  old  days,  and  of  our  present  work 


KOON. 


and  life,  —  and  separate.  Just  so  ships  at 
sea,  in  murky  weather,  will  shift  their  course 
to  come  within  hailing  distance,  and  com- 
pare their  longitude,  and  -  part.  One  I 
have  met  wandering  in  southern  Italy, 
dreaming  as  I  was  dreaming—  over  the 
tomb  of  Virgil,  by  the  dark  grotto  of  Pau- 
silippo.  It  seemed  strange  to  talk  of  our 
old  readings  in  Tacitus'  there  upon  classic 
ground  ;  but  we  did  ;  and  ran  on  to  talk  of 
our  lives  ;  and  sitting  down  upon  the  pro- 
montory of  Baie,  looking  off  upon  that  blue 
sea,  as  clear  as  the  classics,  we  told  each 
other  our  respective  stories.  And  two 
nights  after,  upon  the  quay,  in  sight  of 
Vesuvius,  which  shed  a  lurid  glow  upon 
the  sky,  that  was  reflected  from  the  white 
walls  of  the  Hotel  de  Russie,  and  from  the 
broad  lava  pavements,  we  parted—  he  to 
wander  among  the  isles  of  the  ^Egean  and 
I  to  turn  northward. 

Another  time,  as  I  was  wandering  among 
those  mysterious   figures   that   crowd   the 


T  n         °pera  uP°n  a  n£      o 

the  Masked  Ball,  I  saw  a  familiar  face  •  I 

followed  it  with  my  eye,  until  I  became 
convinced.  He  did  not  know  me  until  I 
named  his  old  seat  upon  the  bench  of  the 
Division  Room,  and  the  hard-faced  Tutor 
V  -  •  J  Then  we  talked  of  the  old  rival- 
ries, and  Christmas  jollities,  and  of  this  and 


248  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

that  one,  whom  we  had  come  upon  in  our 
wayward  tracks ;  while  the  black-robed 
grisettes  stared  through  their  velvet  masks ; 
— nor  did  we  tire  of  comparing  the  old 
memories,  with  the  unearthly  gaiety  of  the 
scene  about  us,  until  day-light  broke. 

In  a  quiet  mountain  town  of  New  Eng- 
land, I  came  not  long  since  upon  another: 
he  was  hale  and  hearty,  and  pushing  his 
lawyer  work  with  just  the  same  nervous 
energy,  with  which  he  used  to  recite  a  theo- 
rem of  Euclid.  He  was  father  too  of  a 
couple  of  stout,  curly-pated  boys ;  and  his 
good  woman,  as  he  called  her,  appeared  a 
sensible,  honest,  good-natured  lady.  I 
must  say  that  I  envied  him  his  wife,  much 
more  than  I  had  envied  my  companion  of 
the  opera — his  Domino. 

I  happened  only  a  little  while  ago  to 
drop  into  the  college  chapel  of  a  Sunday. 
There  were  the  same  hard  oak  benches 
below,  and  the  lucky  fellows  who  enjoyed 
a  corner  seat,  were  leaning  back  upon  the 
rail,  after  the  old  fashion.  The  tutors  were 
perched  up  in  their  side  boxes,  looking  as 
prim,  and  serious,  and  important,  as  ever. 
The  same  stout  Doctor  read  the  hymn  in 
the  same  rhythmical  way  ;  and  he  prayed 
the  same  prayer,  for  (I  thought)  the  same 
old  sort  of  sinners.  As  I  shut  my  eyes  to 
listen,  it  seemed  as  if  the  intermediate 


NOON. 


249 


years  had  all  gone  out ;  and  that  I  was  on 
my  own  pew  bench,  and  thinking  out  those 
little  schemes  for  excuses,  or  for  effort, 
which  were  to  relieve  me,  or  to  advance 
me,  in  my  college  world. 

There  was  a  pleasure,  like  the  pleasure  of 
dreaming  about  forgotten  joys— in  listen- 
ing to  the  Doctor's  sermon :  he  began  in 
the  same  half  embarrassed,  half  awkward 
way;  and  fumbled  at  his  Bible  leaves,  and 
the  poor  pinched  cushion,  as  he  did  long 
before.  But  as  he  went  on  with  his  rusty 
and  polemic  vigor,  the  poetry  within  him 
would  now  and  then  warm  his  soul  into  a 
burst  of  fervid  eloquence,  and  his  face 
would  glow,  and  his  hand  tremble,  and  the 
cushion  and  the  Bible  leaves  be  all  forgot, 
m  the  glow  of  his  thought,  until  with  a  half 
cough,  and  a  pinch  at  the  cushion,  he  fell 
back  into  his  strong,  but  tread-mill  argu- 
mentation. 

In  the  corner  above,  was  the  stately, 
white-haired  professor,  wearing  the  old 
dignity  of  carriage,  and  a  smile  as  bland,  as 
if  the  years  had  all  been  playthings ;  and 
had  I  seen  him  in  his  lecture-room,  I  dare- 
say  I  should  have  found  the  same  suavity 
of  address,  the  same  marvellous  currency 
of  talk,  and  the  same  infinite  composure 
over  the  exploding  retorts. 

Near  him  was  the  silver-haired  old  gen- 


250  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

tleman, — with  a  very  astute  expression, — 
who  used  to  have  an  odd  habit  of  tighten- 
ing his  cloak  about  his  nether  limbs.  I 
could  not  see  that  his  eye  was  any  the  less 
bright ;  nor  did  he  seem  less  eager  to  catch 
at  the  handle  of  some  witticism,  or  bit  of 
satire, — to  the  poor  student's  cost.  I  re- 
membered my  old  awe  of  him,  I  must  say, 
with  something  of  a  grudge  ;  but  I  had  got 
fairly  over  it  now.  There  are  sharper  griefs 
in  life,  than  a  professor's  talk. 

Farther  on,  I  saw  the  long-faced,  dark- 
haired  man,  who  looked  as  if  he  were  al- 
ways near  some  explosive,  electric  battery, 
or  upon  an  insulated  stool.  He  was,  I  be- 
lieve, a  man  of  fine  feelings  ;  but  he  had  a 
way  of  reducing  all  action  to  dry,  hard, 
mathematical  system,  with  very  little 
poetry  about  it.  I  know  there  was  not 
much  poetry  in  his  problems  in  physics, 
and  still  less  in  his  half-yearly  examina- 
tions. But  I  do  not  dread  them  now. 

Over  opposite,  I  was  glad  to  see  still,  the 
aged  head  of  the  kind,  and  generous  old 
man,  who  in  my  day  presided  over  the  col- 
lege ;  and  who  carried  with  him  the  affec- 
tions of  each  succeeding  class, — added  to 
their  respect  for  his  learning.  This  seems 
a  higher  triumph  to  me  now,  than  it  seemed 
then.  A  strong  mind,  or  a  cultivated  mind 
may  challenge  respect ;  but  there  is  needed 
a  noble  one,  to  win  affection. 


NOON.  35, 

A  new  man  now  filled  his  place  in  the 
president's  seat ;  but  he  was  one  whom  I 
had  known,  and  been  proud  to  know 
His  figure  was  bent,  and  thin— the  very 
figure  that  an  old  Flemish  master  would 
have  chosen,  for  a  scholar.  His  eye  had  a 
kind  of  piercing  lustre,  as  if  it  had  long 
been  fixed  on  books;  and  his  expression 
—when  unrelieved  by  his  affable  smile- 
was  that  of  hard  midnight  toil.  With  all 
his  polish  of  mind,  he  was  a  gentleman  at 
heart ;  and  treated  us  always  with  a  manly 
courtesy,  that  is  not  forgotten. 

But  of  all  the  faces  that  used  to  be  ranged 
below— four  hundred  men  and  boys- 
there  was  not  one,  with  whom  to  join  hands, 
and  live  back  again.  Their  griefs,  joys,  and 
toil,  were  chaining  them  to  their  labor  of 
life.  Each  one  in  his  thought,  coursing 
over  a  world  as  wide  as  my  own  ;— how 
many  thousand  worlds  of  thought,  upon 
this  one  world  of  ours ! 

I  stepped  dreamily  through  the  corridors 
of  the  old  Atheneum,  thinking  of  that  first 
fearful  step,  when  the  faces  were  new,  and 
the  stem  tutor  was  strange,  and  the  prolix 
Livy  so  hard.  I  went  up  at  night,  and 
skulked  around  the  buildings,  when  the 
lights  were  blazing  from  all  the  windows, 
and  they  were  busy  with  their  tasks,— plain 
tasks,  and  easy  tasks,— because  they  are  cer- 


252        '   REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

tain  tasks.  Happy  fellows — thought  I — 
who  have  only  to  do,  what  is  set  before  you 
to  be  done.  But  the  time  is  coming,  and 
very  fast,  when  you  must  not  only  do,  but 
know  what  to  do.  The  time  is  coming, 
when  in  place  of  your  one  master,  you  will 
have  a  thousand  masters — masters  of  duty, 
of  business,  of  pleasure,  and  of  grief — giv- 
ing you  harder  lessons  each  one  of  them, 
than  any  of  your  Fluxions. 

MORNING  will  pass,  and  the  NOON  will 
come — hot,  and  scorching. 


THE  PACQUET  OF  BELLA. 

I  HAVE  not  forgotten  that  pacquet  of 
Bella ;  I  did  not  once  forget  it.  And  when 
I  saw  Lilly — now  the  grown  up  Lilly,  hap- 
py in  her  household,  and  blithe  as  when 
she  was  a  maiden,  she  gave  it  to  me.  She 
told  me  too  of  Bella's  illness,  and  of  her 
suffering,  and  of  her  manner,  when  she  put 
the  little  pacquet  in  her  hand  'for  Cousin 
Paul.'  But  this  I  will  not  repeat ; — I  can- 
not. 

I  know  not  why  it  was,  but  I  shuddered 
at  the  mention  of  her  name.  There  are 
some  who  will  talk,  at  table,  and  in  their 
gossip,  of  dead  friends ;  I  wonder  how 


NOON. 


they  do  it  ?  For  myself,  when  the  grave 
has  closed  its  gates  on  the  faces  of  those  I 
love— however  busy  my  mournful  thought 
may  be,  the  tongue  is  silent.  I  cannot 
name  their  names ;  it  shocks  me  tg  hear 
them  named.  It  seems  like  tearing  open 
half-healed  wounds,  and  disturbing  with 
harsh  worldly  noise,  the  sweet  sleep  of 
death. 

I  loved  Bella.  I  know  not  how  I  loved 
her,— whether  as  a  lover,  or  as  a  husband 
loves  a  wife ;  I  only  know  this,— I  always 
loved  her.  She  was  so  gentle— so  beau- 
tiful,—  so  confiding,  that  I  never  once 
thought,  but  that  the  whole  world  loved 
her,  as  well  as  I.  There  was  only  one  thing; 
I  never  told  to  Bella  ; 1  would  tell  her 

if?  my  griefj  and  of  a11  ™y  J°ys ; I  w°uid 

1  her  my  hopes,  my  ambitious  dreams, 
my  disappointments,  my  anger,  and  my 
dislikes  ;— but  I  never  told  her  how  much 
I  loved  her. 

I  do  not  know  why,  unless  I  knew  that 
t  was  needless.  But  I  should  as  soon 
have  thought  of  telling  Bella  on  some 
winter  s  day— Bella,  it  is  winter  !— or  of 
whispering  to  her  on  some  balmy  day  of 
August— Bella,  it  is  summer !— as  of  tell- 
ing her,,  after  she  had  grown  to  girlhood, 
— Bella,  I  love  you  ! 

I  had  received  one  letter  from  her  in 


«54  REVERIES  GF  A  BACHELOR: 

the  old  countries  ;  it  was  a  sweet  letter,  in 
which  she  told  me  all  that  she  had  been 
doing,  and  how  she  had  thought  of  me, 
when  she  rambled  over  the  woods  where 
we  had  rambled  together.  She  had  writ- 
ten two  or  three  other  letters,  Lilly  told 
me,  but  they  had  never  reached  me.  I 
had  told  her  too  of  all  that  made  my  happi- 
ness ;  I  wrote  her  about  the  sweet  girl  I 
had  seen  on  shipboard,  and  how  I  met  her 
afterward,  and  what  a  happy  time  we  passed 
down  in  Devon.  I  even  told  her  of  the 
strange  dream  I  had,  in  which  Isabel 
seemed  to  be  in  England,  and  to  turn  away 
from  me  sadly,  because  I  called — Carry. 

I  also  told  her  of  all  I  saw  in  that  great 
world  of  Paris — writing,  as  I  would  write 
to  a  sister ;  and  I  told  her  too  of  the  sweet 
Roman  girl,  Enrica — of  her  brown  hair, 
and  of  her  rich  eyes,  and  of  her  pretty  Car- 
nival dresses.  And  when  I  missed  letter 
after  letter,  I  told  her  that  she  must  still 
write  her  letters,  or  some  little  journal,  and 
read  it  to  me  when  I  came  back.  I  thought 
how  pleasant  it  would  be  to  sit  under  the 
trees  by  her  father's  house,  and  listen  to 
her  tender  voice  going  through  that  record 
of  her  thoughts,  and  fears.  Alas,  how 
our  hopes  betray  us  ! 

It  began  almost  like  a  diary,  about  the 
time  her  father  fell  sick.  "It  is"— said 


NOON.  255 

rfhe  to  Lilly,  when  she  gave  it  to  her,  "what 
I  would  have  said  to  Cousin  Paul,  if  he 
had  been  here." 

It  begins  " 1  have  come  back  now 

to  father's  house;  I  could  not  leave  him 
alone,  for  they  told  me  he  was  sick.  I 
found  him  not  well ;  he  was  very  glad  to 
see  me,  and  kissed  me  so  tenderly  that  I 
am  sure,  Cousin  Paul,  you  would  not  have 
said,  as  you  used  to  say— that  he  was  a 
cold  man!  I  sometimes  read  to  him,  sit- 
ting  in  the  deep  library  window,  (you  re- 
member it,)  where  we  used  to  nestle  out  of 
his  sight,  at  dusk.  He  cannot  read  any 
more. 

"  I  would  give  anything  to  see  the  little 
Carry  you  speak  of;  but  do  you  know  you 
did  not  describe  her  to  me  at  all ;  will  you 
not  tell  me  if  she  has  dark  hair,  or  light,  or 
if  her  'eyes  are  blue,  or  dark,  like  mine?  Is 
she  good ;  did  she  not  make  ugly  speeches 
or  grow  peevish,  in  those  long  days  upon 
the  ocean?  How  I  would  have  liked  to 
have  been  with  you,  on  those  clear  starlit 
nights,  looking  off  upon  the  water !  But 
then  I  think  that  you  would  not  have 
wished  me  there;  and  that  you  did  not 
once  think  of  me  even.  This  makes  me 
sad  ;  yet  I  know  not  why  it  should  ;  for  I 
always  liked  you  best,  when  you  were 


J56  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

happy ;  and  I  am  sure  you  must  have  been 
happy  then.  You  say  you  shall  never  see 
her  after  you  have  left  the  ship  : — you 
must  not  think  so,  Cousin  Paul ;  if  she  is  so 
beautiful,  and  fond,  as  you  tell  me,  your 
own  heart  will  lead  you  in  her  way,  some 
time  again  ;  I  feel  almost  sure  of  it. 

*  *        *     "Father  is  getting  more 
and  more  feeble,   and  wandering   in   his 
mind ;  this  is  very  dreadful ;  he  calls  me 
sometimes    by  my   mother's   name;    and 
when  I  say — it  is  Isabel, — he  says — what 
Isabel !  and  treats  me  as  if  I  was  a  strang- 
er.    The  physician  shakes  his  head  when  I 
ask  him  of  father:  oh,  Paul  if  he  should 
die — what  could  I  do  ?     I  should  die  too — 
I  know  I  should.     Who  would  there  be  to 
care  for  me  ?     Lilly  is  married,  and  Ben  is 
far  off,  and  you  Paul,  whom  I  love  better 
than  either,  are  a  long  way  from  me.     But 
God  is  good,  and  he  will  spare  my  father. 

*  *        *     "  So  you  have  seen  again 
your  little  Carry  :     I  told  you  it  would  be 
so.     You  tell  me  how  accidental  it  was  :  — 
ah,  Paul,  Paul,  you  rogue,  honest  as  you 
are.  I  half  doubt  you  there !     I  like  your 
description  of  her    too, — dark    eyes  like 
mine  you  say — '  almost  as  pretty ; '  well, 
Paul,  I  will  forgive  you  that ;  it  is  only  a 


NOON. 


257 


white  lie.  _  You  know  they  must  be  a  great 
deal  prettier  than  mine,  or  you  would  nev- 
er have  stayed  a  whole  fortnight  in  an  old 
farmer's  house,  far  down  in  Devon!  I 
wish  I  could  see  her  :  I  wish  she  was  here 
with  you  now  ;  for  it  is  mid-summer,  and 
the  trees  and  flowers  were  never  prettier. 
But  I  am  all  alone  ;  father  is  too  ill  to  go 
out  at  all.  I  fear  now  very  much,  that  he 
will  never  go  out  again.  Lilly  was  here 
yesterday,  but  he  did  not  know  her.  She 
read  me  your  last  letter  :  it  was  not  so  long 
as  mine.  You  are  very  —  very  good  to  me, 
-raul. 


*  *  *  u  por  a  iong  time 
written  nothing:  my  father  has  been  very 
ill,  and  the  old  housekeeper  has  been  sick 
too,  and  father  would  have  no  one  but  me 
near  him.  He  cannot  live  long.  I  feel 
sadly—  miserably  ;  you  will  not  know  me 
when  you  come  home  ;  your  '  pretty  Bella' 
—  as  you  used  to  call  me,  will  have  lost  all 
her  beauty.  But  perhaps  you  will  not  care 
for  that,  for  you  tell  me  you  have  found 
one  prettier  then  ever.  I  do  not  know, 
Cousin  Paul,  but  it  is  because  I  am  so  sad, 
and  selfish  —  for  sorrow  is  selfish  —  but  I  do 
not  like  your  raptures  about  the  Roman 
girl.  Be  careful,  Paul  :  I  know  your  heart  : 
it  is  quick  and  sensitive  ;  and  I  dare  say 


«58  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

she  is  pretty,  and  has  beautiful  eyes ;  for 
they  tell  me  all  the  Italian  girls  have  soft 
eyes. 

"  But  Italy  is  far  away,  Paul ;  I  can  never 
see  Enrica ;  she  will  never  come  here.  No- 
no,  remember  Devon  :  I  feel  as  if  Carry 
was  a  sister  now :  I  cannot  feel  so  of  the 
Roman  girl :  I  do  not  want  to  feel  so.  You 
will  say  this  is  harsh  ;  and  I  am  afraid  you 
jvill  not  like  me  so  well  for  it;  but  I 
cannot  help  saying  it.  I  love  you  too  well, 
Cousin  Paul,  not  to  say  it. 

*  *  *  «it  is  all  over!  Indeed, 
Paul,  I  am  very  desolate  !  '  The  golden 
bowl  is  broken  — my  poor  father  has  gone 
to  his  last  home.  I  was  expecting  it  ;  but 
how  can  we  expect  that  fearful  comer — 
death  ?  He  had  been  for  a  long  time  so 
feeble,  that  he  could  scarce  speak  at  all : 
he  sat  for  hours  in  his  chair,  looking  upon 
the  fire,  or  looking  out  at  the  window.  He 
would  hardly  notice  me  when  I  came  to 
change  his  pillows,  or  to  smooth  them  for 
his  head.  But  before  he  died,  he  knew  me 
as  well  as  ever.  'Isabel,'  he  said,  'you 
have  been  a  good  daughter  :  God  will  re- 
ward you  !'  and  he  kissed  me  so  tenderly, 
and  looked  after  me  so  anxiously,  with 
such  intelligence  in  his  look,  that  I  thought 
perhaps  he  would  revive  again.  In  the 


NOON.  259 

evening  he  asked  me  for  one  of  his  books, 
that  he  loved  very  much.  « Father,'  said  I, 
'you  cannot  read;  it  is  almost  dark.' 

"'Oh,  yes,'  said  he;  'Isabel,  I  can  read 
now.  And  I  brought  it ;  he  kept  my  hand 
a  long  while ;  then  he  opened  the  book  ; — 
it  was  a  book  about  death. 

"  I  brought  a  candle,  for  I  knew  hs 
could  not  read  without. 

"'Isabel,  dear,'  said  he, 'put  the  candle 
a  little  nearer.'  But  it  was  close  beside 
him  even  then. 

"  « A  little  nearer,  Isabel,' — repeated  he, 
and  his  voice  was  very  faint ;  and  he 
grasped  my  hand  hard. 

" ' Nearer,  Isabel ! nearer !' 

"  There  was  no  need  to  do  it,  for  my  poor 
father  was  dead  !  Oh !  Paul,  Paul f— pity 
me.  I  do  not  know  but  I  am  crazed.  It 
does  not  seem  the  same  world  it  was.  And 
the  house,  and  the  trees,  oh,  they  are  very 
dismal ! 

"  I  wish  you  would  come  home,  Cousin 
Paul :  life  would  not  be  so  very — very 
blank  as  it  is  now.  Lilly  is  kind  ; — I  thank 
her  from  my  heart.  But  it  is  not  her  father 
who  is  dead ! 

*  *  *  «  i  am  calmer  now ;  I  am 
staying  with  Lilly.  The  world  seems 
smaller  than  it  did ;  but  Heaven  seems  a 


a6o  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

great  deal  larger :  there  is  a  place  for  us 
all  there,  Paul, — if  we  only  .seek  it !  They 
tell  me  you  are  coming  home :  I  am  glad. 
You  will  not  like  perhaps  to  come  away 
from  that  pretty  Enrica,  you  speak  of  ;  but 
dc  so,  Paul.  It  seems  to  me  that  I  see 
clearer  than  I  did,  and  I  talk  bolder.  The 
girlish  Isabel  you  will  not  find,  for  I  am 
much  older,  and  my  air  is  more  grave ;  and 
this  suffering  has  made  me  feeble — very 
feeble. 

*  *  *  "  It  is  not  easy  for  me  to 
write ;  but  I  must  tell  you  that  I  have  just 
found  out  who  your  Carry  is.  Years  ago, 
when  you  were  away  from  home,  I  was  at 
school  with  her.  We  were  always  together. 
I  wonder  I  could  not  have  found  her  out 
from  your,  description ;  but  I  did  not  even 
suspect  it.  She  is  a  dear  girl,  and  is  wor- 
thy of  all  your  love.  I  have  seen  her  once 
since  you  have  met  her :  we  talked  of  you. 
She  spoke  kindly — very  kindly :  more  than 
this,  I  cannot  tell  you,  for  I  do  not  know 
more.  Ah,  Paul,  may  you  be  happy :  I 
feel  as  if  I  had  but  a  little  while  to  live. 

*  "  It  is  even  so,  my  dear 
Cousin  Paul, — I  shall  write  but  little  more ; 
my  hand  trembles  now.  But  I  am  ready. 
It  is  a  glorious  world  beyond  this — I  know 


NOON.  261 

it  is !  And  there  we  shall  meet.  I  did 
hope  to  see  you  once  again,  and  to  hear 
your  voice,  speaking  to  me  as  you  used  to 
speak.  But  I  shall  not.  Life  is  too  frail 
with  me.  I  seem  to  live  wholly  now  in  the 
world  where  I  am  going  -.—there  is  my 
mother,  and  my  father,  and  my  little 
brother — we  shall  meet — I  know  we  shall 
meet ! 

*  *  *  "  The  last— Paul.  Never 
again  in  this  world!  I  am  happy — very- 
happy.  You  will  come  to  me.  I  can  write 
no  more.  May  good  angels  guard  you,  and 
bring  you  to  Heaven !  " 

Shall  I  go  on  ? 

But  the  toils  of  life  are  upon  me.  Private 
griefs  do  not  break  the  force,  and  the 
weight  of  the  great — Present.  A  life — at 
best  the  half  of  it,  is  before  me.  It  is  to 
be  wrought  out  with  nerve  and  work. 
And — blessed  be  God! — there  are  gleams 
of  sunlight  upon  it.  That  sweet  Carry, 
doubly  dear  to  me  now,  that  she  is  joined 

with  my  sorrow  for  the  lost  Isabel, • 

shall  be  sought  for ! 

And  with  her  sweet  image  floating  be- 
fore me,  the  NOON  wanes,  and  the  shadows 
of  EVENING  lengthen  upon  the  land. 


III. 

EVENING. 

THE  Future  is  a  great  land: — how  the 
lights,  and  the  shadows  throng  over 
it, — bright  and  dark,  slow  and  swift  ! 
Pride  and  Ambition  build  up   great  cas- 
tles on  its  plains, — great   monuments   on 
the  mountains,  that  reach  heavenward,  and 
dip  their  tops  in  the  blue  of   Eternity! 
Tnen    comes   an    earthquake — the     earth- 
quake of  disappointment,  of  distrust,  or  of 
inaction,  and  lays  them  low.     Gaping  des- 
olation widens  its  breaches  everywhere ;  the 
eye  is  full  of  them,  and  can  see  nothing  be- 
side.    By  and  by,  the  sun  peeps  forth, — as 
now  from  behind  yonder  cloud — and  reani- 
mates the  soul. 

Fame  beckons,  sitting  high  in  the  heav- 
ens ;  and  joy  lends  a  halo  to  the  vision. 
A  thousand  resolves  stir  your  heart ;  your 
hand  is  hot,  and  feverish  for  action  ;  your 
brain  works  madly,  and  you  snatch  here, 
and  you  snatch  there,  in  the  convulsive 
(262) 


EVENING.  «6j 

throes  of  your  delirium.  Perhaps  you  see 
some  earnest,  careful  plodder,  once  far  be- 
hind you,  now  toiling  slowly  but  surely, 
over  the  plain  of  life,  until  he  seems  near 
to  grasping  those  brilliant  phantoms  which 
dance  along  the  horizon  of  the  future ;  and 
the  sight  stirs  your  soul  to  frenzy,  and  you 
bound  on  after  him  with  the  madness  of  a 
fever  in  your  veins.  But  it  was  by  no  such 
action,  that  the  fortunate  toiler  has  won 
his  progress.  His  hand  is  steady,  his  brain 
is  cool;  his  eye  is  fixed,  and  sure. 

The  Future  is  a  great  land ;  a  man  can- 
not go  round  it  in  a  day ;  he  cannot  meas- 
ure it  with  a  bound  ;  he  cannot  bind  its 
harvests  into  a  single  sheaf,  it  is  wider 
than  the  vision,  and  has  no  end. 

Yet  always,  day  by  day,  hour  by  hour, 
second  by  second,  the  hard  Present  is 
elbowing  us  off  into  that  great  land  of  the 
Future.  Our  souls  indeed,  wander  to  it,  as 
to  a  home-land  ;  they  run  beyond  time  and 
space,  beyond  planets  and  suns,  beyond 
far-off  suns  and  comets,  until  like  blind  flies, 
they  are  lost  in  the  blaze  of  immensity, 
and  can  only  grope  their  way  back  to  our 
earth,  and  our  time,  by  the  cunning  of  in- 
stinct. 

Cut  out  the  Future — even  that  little 
Future,  which  is  the  EVENING  of  our  life, 
and  what  a  fall  into  vacuity  !  Forbid  those 


»64  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

earnest  forays  over  the  borders  of  Now, 
and  on  what  spoils  would  the  soul  live  ? 

For  myself,  I  delight  to  wander  there, 
and  to  weave  every  day,  the  passing  life, 
into  the  coming  life, — so  closely,  that  I  may 
be  unconscious  of  the  joining.  And  if  so 
be  that  I  am  able,  I  would  make  the  whole 
piece  bear  fair  proportions,  and  just 
figures, — like  those  tapestries,  on  which 
nuns  work  by  inches,  and  finish  with  their 
lives  ; — or  like  those  grand  frescos,  which 
poet  artists  have  wrought  on  the  vaults  of 
old  cathedrals,  gaunt,  and  colossal, — ap- 
pearing mere  daubs  of  carmine  and  azure, 
as  they  lay  upon  their  backs,  working  out 
a  hand's  breadth  at  a  time, — but  when  com- 
plete, showing — symmetrical,  and  glo- 
rious ! 

But  not  alone  does  the  soul  wander  to 
those  glittering  heights  where  fame  sits, 
with  plumes  waving  in  zephyrs  of  applause  ; 
there  belong  to  it,  other  appetites,  which 
range  wide,  and  constantly  over  the  broad 
Future-land.  We  are  not  merely,  working, 
intellectual  machines,  but  social  puzzles, 
whose  solution  is  the  work  of  a  life.  Much 
as  hope  may  lean  toward  the  intoxicating 
joy  of  distinction,  there  is  another  leaning 
in  the  soul,  deeper,  and  stronger,  toward 
those  pleasures  which  the  heart  pants  for, 
and  in  whose  atmosphere,  the  affections 
bloom  and  ripen. 


EVENING.  265 

The  first  may  indeed  be  uppermost;  it 
may  be  noisiest ;  it  may  drown  with  the 
clamor  of  mid-day,  the  nicer  sympathies. 
But  all  our  day  is  not  mid-day  ;  and  all  our 
life  is  not  noise.  Silence  is  as  strong  as 
the  soul ;  and  there  is  no  tempest  so  wild 
with  blasts,  but  has  a  wilder  lull.  There 
lies  in  the  depth  of  every  man's  soul  a 
mine  of  affection,  which  from  time  to  time 
will  burn  with  the  seething  heat  of  a  vol- 
cano, and  heave  up  lava-like  monuments, 
through  all  the  cold  strata  of  his  commoner 
nature. 

One  may  hide  his  warmer  feelings  ;— 
he  may  paint  them  dimly ; — he  may  crowd 
them  out  of  his  sailing  chart,  where  he  only 
sets  down  the  harbors  for  traffic ;  yet  in 
his  secret  heart,  he  will  map  out  upon  the 
great  country  of  the  Future,  fairy  islands 
of  love,  and  of  joy.  There,  he  will  be  sure 
to  wander,  when  his  soul  is  lost  in  those 
quiet  and  hallowed  hopes,  which  take  hold 
on  heaven. 

Love  only,  unlocks  the  door  upon  that 
Futurity,  where  the  isles  of  the  blessed  lie 
like  stars.  Affection  is  the  stepping  stone 
to  God.  The  heart  is  our  only  measure  of 
infinitude.  The  mind  tires  with  greatness ; 
the  heart — never.  Thought  is  worried  and 
weakened  in  its  flight  through  the  immen- 
sity of  space ;  but  Love  soars  around  the 

18 


«66  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

throne  of  the  Highest,  with  added  blessing 
and  strength. 

I  know  not  how  it  may  be  with  others, 
but  with  me,  the  heart  is  a  readier,  and 
quicker  builder  of  those  fabrics  which  strew 
the  great  country  of  the  Future,  than  the 
mind.  They  may  not  indeed  rise  so  high, 
as  the  dizzy  pinnacles  that  ambition  loves  to 
rear ;  but  they  lie  like  fragrant  islands,  in 
a  sea,  whose  ripple  is  a  continuous  melody. 

And  as  I  muse  now,  looking  toward  the 
EVENING,  which  is  already  begun, — tossed 
as  I  am  with  the  toils  of  the  Past,  and  be- 
wildered with  the  vexations  of  the  Present, 
my  affections  are  the  architect,  that  build 
up  the  future  refuge.  And,  in  fancy  at 
least,  I  will  build  it  boldly ; — saddened  it 
may  be  by  the  chance  shadows  of  evening; 
but  through  all,  I  will  hope  for  a  sunset, 
when  the  day  ends,  glorious  with  crimson 
and  gold. 


CARRY. 

I  SAID  that  harsh,  and  hot  as  was  the 
Present,  there  were  joyous  gleams  of  light 
playing  over  the  Future.  How  else  could 
it  be,  when  that  fair  being  whom  I  ,met 
first  upon  the  wastes  of  ocean,  and  whose 
name  even,  is  hallowed  by  the  dying  words 


EVENING.  267 

of  Isabel,  Is  living  in  the  same  world  with 
me  ?  Amid  all  the  perplexities  that  haunt 
me,  as  I  wander  from  the  present  to  the 
future,  the  thought  of  her  image,  of  her 
smile,  of  her  last  kind  adieu,  throws  a  dash 
of  sunlight  upon  my  path. 

And  yet  why?  Is  it  not  very  idle? 
Years  have  passed  since  I  have  seen  her  v 
I  do  not  even  know  where  she  may  be. 
What  is  she  to  me  ? 

My  heart  whispers — very  much ! — but  I 
do  not  listen  to  that  in  my  prouder  moods. 
She  is  a  woman,  a  beautiful  woman  indeed, 
whom  I  have  known  once  —  pleasantly 
known  :  she  is  living,  but  she  will  die,  or 
she  will  marry ; — I  shall  hear  of  it  by  and 
by,  and  sigh  perhaps — nothing  more.  Life 
is  earnest  around  me ;  there  is  no  time  to 
delve  in  the  past,  for  bright  things  to  shed 
radiance  on  the  future. 

I  will  forget  the  sweet  girl,  who  was 
with  me  upon  the  ocean,  and  think  she  is 
dead.  This  manly  soul  is  strong,  if  we 
would  but  think  so  :  it  can  make  a  puppet 
of  griefs,  and  take  down,  and  set  up  at 
will,  the  symbols  of  its  hope. 

— But  no,  I  cannot :  the  more  I  think 
thus,  the  less,  I  really  think  thus.  A 
single  smile  of  that  frail  girl,  when  I  recal 
it, — mocks  all  my  proud  purposes ;  as  if, 
without  her,  my  purposes  were  nothing. 


268  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

Pshaw ! — I  say — it  is  idle ! — and  I 

bury  my  thought  in  books,  and  in  long 
hours  of  toil;  but  as  the  hours  lengthen, 
and  my  head  sinks  with  fatigue,  and  the 
shadows  of  evening  play  around  me,  there 
comes  again  that  sweet  vision,  saying  with 
tender  mockery — is  it  idle?-  And  I  am 
helpless,  and  am  led  away  hopefully  and 
joyfully,  toward  the  golden  gates  which 
open  on  the  Future. 

But  this  is  only  in  those  silent  hours 
when  the  man  is  alone,  and  away  from  his 
working  thoughts.  At  mid-day,  or  in  the 
rush  of  the  world,  he  puts  hard  armor  on, 
that  reflects  all  the  light  of  such  joyous 
fancies.  He  is  cold  and  careless,  and  ready 
for  suffering,  and  for  fight. 

One  day  I  am  travelling :  I  am  absorbed 
in  some  present  cares — thinking  out  some 
plan  which  is  to  make  easier,  or  more  suc- 
cessful, the  voyage  of  life.  I  glance  upon 
the  passing  scenery,  and  upon  new  faces, 
with  that  careless  indifference  which  grows 
upon  a  man  with  years,  and  above  all,  with 
travel.  There  is  no  wife  to  enlist  your 
sympathies— no  children  to  sport  with  :  my 
friends  are  few,  and  scattered;  and  are 
working  out  fairly,  what  is  before  them  to 
do.  Lilly  is  living  here,  and  Ben  is  living 
there  :  their  letters  are  cheerful,  contented 
letters ;  and  they  wish  me  well.  Griefs 


EVENING.  269 

even  have  grown  light  with  wearing  ;  and 
I  am  just  in  that  careless  humor — as  if  I 
said, — jog  on,  old  world — jog  on  !  And  the 
end  will  come  along  soon;  and  we  shall 
get — poor  devils  that  we  are — just  what 
we  deserve ! 

But  on  a  sudden,  my  eyes  rest  on  a  fig- 
ure that  I  think  I  know.  Now,  the  indiffer- 
ence flies  like  mist ;  and  my  heart  throbs: 
and  the  old  visions  come  up.  I  watch  her, 
as  if  there  were  nothing  else  to  be  seen. 
The  form  is  hers  ;  the  grace  is  hers ;  the 
simple  dress— so  neat,  so  tasteful,— that  is 
hers  too.  She  half  turns  her  head  : — it  is 
the  face  that  I  saw  under  the  velvet  cap, 
in  the  Park  of  Devon  ! , 

I  do  not  rush  forward  :  I  sit  as  if  I  were 
in  a  trance.  I  watch  her  every  action — 
the  kind  attentions  to  her  mother  who  sits 
beside  her, — her  naive  exclamations,  as  we 
pass  some  point  of  surpassing  beauty.  It 
se»ems  as  if  a  new  world  were  opening 
to  me  ;  yet  I  cannot  tell  why.  I  keep  my 
place,  and  think,  and  gaze.  I  tear  the 
paper  I  hold  in  my  hand  into  shreds.  I 
play  with  my  watch  chain,  and  twist  the 
seal,  until  it  is  near  breaking.  I  take  out 
my  watch,  look  at  it,  and  put  it  back— yet 
I  cannot  tell  the  hour. 

It  is  she — I  murmur — I  know  it  is 

Carry ! 


arc  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

But  when  they  rise  to  leave,  my  lethargy 
is  broken ;  yet  it  is  with  a  trembling  hesita- 
tion— a  faltering  as  it  were,  between  the 
present  life  and  the  future,  that  I  approach. 
She  knows  me  on  the  instant,  and  greets 
me  kindly ; — as  Bella  wrote — very  kindly, 
yet  she  shows  a  slight  embarrassment,  a 
sweet  embarrassment,  that  I  treasure  in 
my  heart,  more  closely  even  than  the 
greeting.  I  change  my  course,  and  travel 
with  them  ; — now  we  talk  of  the  old  scenes, 
and  two  hours  seem  to  have  made  with  me 
the  difference  of  half  a  lifetime. 

It  is  five  years  since  I  parted  with  her, 
never  hoping  to  meet  again.  She  was  then 
a  frail  girl ;  she  is  now  just  rounding  into 
womanhood.  Her  eyes  are  as  dark  and 
deep  as  ever :  the  lashes  that  fringe  them, 
seem  to  me  even  longer  than  they  were. 
Her  color  is  as  rich,  her  forehead  as  fair, 
her  smile  as  sweet,  as  they  were  before; 
— only  a  little  tinge  of  sadness  floats  upon 
her  eye,  like  the  haze  upon  a  summer  land- 
scape. I  grow  bold  to  look  upon  her,  and 
timid  with  looking.  We  talk  of  Bella:— 
she  speaks  in  a  soft,  low  voice,  and  the 
shade  of  sadness  on  her  face,  gathers — as 
when  a  summer  mist  obscures  the  sun.  I 
talk  in  monosyllables  :  I  can  command  no 
other.  And  there  is  a  look  of  sympathy  in 
her  eye,  when  I  speak  thus,  that  binds  my 


EVENING*  271 

soul  to  her,  as  no  smiles  could  do.  What 
can  draw  the  heart  into  the  fulness  of  love, 
so  quick  as  sympathy  ? 

But  this  passes  ; — we  must  part ;  she  for 
her  home,  and  I  for  that  broad  home,  that 
has  been  mine  so  long — the  world.  It 
seems  broader  to  me  than  ever,  and  colder 
than  ever,  and  less  to  be  wished  for  than 
ever.  A  new  book  of  hope  is  sprung  wide 
open  in  my  life  : a  hope  of  home  ! 

We  are  to  meet  at  some  time,  not  far  off, 
in  the  city  where  I  am  living.  I  look  for- 
ward to  that  time,  as  at  school  I  used  to 
look  for  vacation  :  it  is  a  point  (fappui  for 
hope,  for  thought,  and  for  countless  jour- 
neyings  into  the  opening  future.  Never 
did  I  keep  the  dates  better,  never  count 
the  days  more  carefully,  whether  for  bonds 
to  be  paid,  or  for  dividends  to  fall  due. 

I  welcome  the  time,  and  it  passes  like  a 
dream.  I  am  near  her,  often  as  I  dare ; 
the  hours  are  very  short  with  her,  and  very 
long  away.  She  receives  me  kindly — 
always  very  kindly ;  she  could  not  be  other- 
wise than  kind.  But  is  it  anything  more  ? 
This  is  a  greedy  nature  of  ours ;  and  when 
sweet  kindness  flows  upon  us,  we  want 
more.  I  know  she  is  kind  ;  and  yet  in  place 
of  being  grateful,  I  am  only  covetous  of  an 
excess  of  kindness. 

She  does  not  mistake  my  feelings,  surely: 


272  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR, 

— ah,  no, — trust  a  woman  for  that !  But  what 
have  I,  or  what  am  I,  to  ask  a  return  ?  She 
is  pure,  and  gentle  as  an  angel ;  and  I — 
alas — only  a  poor  soldier  in  our  world-fight 
against  the  Devil!  Sometimes  in  moods 
of  vanity,  I  call  up  what  I  fondly  reckon 
my  excellencies  or  deserts — a  sorry,  pitiful 
array,  that  makes  me  shame-faced  when  I 
meet  her.  And  in  an  instant,  I  banish 
them  all.  And  I  think,  that  if  I  were 
called  upon  in  some  high  court  of  justice, 
to  say  why  I  should  claim  her  indulgence, 
or  her  love — I  would  say  nothing  of  my- 
sturdy  effort  to  beat  down  the  roughnesses 
of  toil — nothing  of  such  manliness  as  wears 
a  calm  front  amid  the  frowns  of  the  world, 
— nothing  of  little  triumphs,  in  the  every- 
day fight  of  life ;  but  only,  I  would  enter 
the  simple  plea — this  heart  is  hers ! 

She  leaves  ;  and  I  have  said  nothing  of 
what  was  seething  within  me;  —  how  I 
curse  my  folly!  She  is  gone,  and  never 
perhaps  will  return.  I  recal  in  despair  her 
last  kind  glance.  The  world  seems  blank 
to  me.  She  does  not  know;  perhaps  she 
does  not  care,  if  I  love  her. — Well,  I  will 
bear  it, — I  say.  But  I  cannot  bear  it. 
Business  is  broken  ;  books  are  blurred ; 
something  remains  undone,  that  fate, de- 
clares must  be  done.  Not  a  place  can  I 
find,  br"  her  sweet  smile  g:ives  to  it,  either 


EVENING.  373 

a  tinge  of  gladness,  or  a  black  shade  of 
desolation. 

I  sit  down  at  my  table  with  pleasant 
books ;  the  fire  is  burning  cheerfully ;  my 
dog  looks  up  earnestly  when  I  speak  to  him; 
but  it  will  never  do!  Her  image  sweeps 
away  all  these  comforts  in  a  flood.  I  fling 
down  my  book ;  I  turn  my  back  upon  my 
dog ;  the  fire  hisses  and  sparkles  in  mockery 
of  me. 

Suddenly  a  thought  flashes  on  my  brain  ; 
—I  will  write  to  her— I  say.  And  a  smile 
floats  over  my  face, — a  smile  of  hope,  end- 
ing in  doubt.  I  catch  up  my  pen — my 
trusty  pen ;  and  the  clean  sheet  lies  before 
me.  The  paper  could  not  be  better,  nor 
the  pen.  I  have  written  hundreds  of  let- 
ters ;  it  is  easy  to  write  letters.  But  now, 
it  is  not  easy. 

I  begin,  and  cross  it  out.  I  begin  again, 
and  get  on  a  little  farther ;— then  cross  it 
out.  I  try  again,  but  can  write  nothing. 
I  fling  down  my  pen  in  despair,  and  burn 
the  sheet,  and  go  to  my  library  for  some 
old  sour  treatise  of  Shaftesbury,  or  Lyttle- 
ton;  and  say— talking  to  myself  all  the 
while;  let  her  go  .'—She  is  beautiful,  but  I 
am  strong ;  the  world  is  short ;  we— I  and 
my  dog,  and  my  books,  and  my  pen,  will 
battle  it  through  bravely,  and  leave  enough 
for  a  tomb-stone. 


874  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

But  even  as  I  say  it,  the  tears  start ; — it 
is  all  false  saying  !  And  I  throw  Shaftes- 
bury  across  the  room,  and  take  up  my  pen 
again.  It  glides  on  and  on,  as  my  hope 
glows,  and  I  tell  her  of  our  first  meeting, 
and  of  our  hours  in  the  ocean  twilight,  and 
of  our  unsteady  stepping  on  the  heaving 
deck,  and  of  that  parting  in  the  noise  of 
London,  and  of  my  joy  at  seeing  her  in  the 
pleasant  country,  and  of  my  grief  after- 
ward. And  then  I  mention  Bella, — her 
friend  and  mine — and  the  tears  flow ;  and 
then  I  speak  of  our  last  meeting,  and  of 
my  doubts,  and  of  this  very  evening, — and 
how  I  could  not  write,  and  abandoned  it, — 
and  then  felt  something  within  me  that 

made  me  write,  and  tell  her all ! 

"  That  my  heart  was  not  my  own,  but  was 
wholly  hers ;  and  that  if  she  would  be  mine, 

1  would  cherish  her,  and  love  her 

always  !" 

Then,  I  feel  a  kind  of  happiness, — a 
strange,  tumultuous  happiness,  into  which 
doubt  is  creeping  from  time  to  time,  bring- 
ing with  it  a  cold  shudder.  I  seal  the  let- 
ter, and  carry  it — a  great  weight — for  the 
mail.  It  seems  as  if  there  could  be  no  other 
letter  that  day ;  and  as  if  all  the  coaches 
and  horses,  and  cars,  and  boats  were  spe- 
cially detailed  to  bear  that  single  sheet.  It 
is  a  great  letter  for  me ;  my  destiny  lies 
in  it. 


EVENING.  t75 

I  do  not  sleep  well  that  night ; — it  is  a 
tossing  sleep;  one  time  joy— sweet  and 
holy  joy  comes  to  my  dreams,  and  an  angel 
is  by  me  ; — another  time,  the  angel  fades — 
the  brightness  fades,  and  I  wake,  strug- 
gling with  fear.  For  many  nights  it  is  so, 
until  the  day  comes,  on  which  I  am  looking 
for  a  reply. 

The  postman  has  little  suspicion  that  the 
letter  which  he  gives  me — although  it  con- 
tains no  promissory  notes,  nor  moneys,  nor 
deeds,  nor  articles  of  trade — is  yet  to  have 
a  greater  influence  upon  my  life  and  upon 
my  future,  than  all  the  letters  he  has  ever 
brought  to  me  before.  But  I  do  not  show 
him  this ;  nor  do  I  let  him  see  the  clutch 
with  which  I  grasp  it.  I  bear  it,  as  if  it 
were  a  great  and  fearful  burden,  to  my 
room.  I  lock  the  door,  and  having  broken 
the  seal  with  a  quivering  hand, — read : 


THE  LETTER. 

"  PAUL— for  I  think  I  may  call  you  so 
now — I  know  not  how  to  answer  you. 
Your  letter  gave  me  great  joy ;  but  it  gave 
me  pain  too.  I  cannot — will  not  doubt 
what  you  say :  I  believe  that  you  love  me 
better  than  I  deserve  to  be  loved ;  and  I 


276  REVERIES  OF  A   BACHELOR. 

know  that  I  am  not  worthy  of  all  your  kind 
praises.  But  it  is  not  this  that  pains  me ; 
for  I  know  that  you  have  a  generous  heart, 
and  would  forgive,  as  you  always  have  for- 
given, any  weakness  of  mine.  I  am  proud 
too,  very  proud,  to  have  won  your  love; 
but  it  pains  me — more  perhaps  than  you- 
will  believe — to  think  that  I  cannot  write 
back  to  you,  as  I  would  wish  to  write ; — 
alas,  never !" 

Here  I  dash  the  letter  upon  the  floor, 
and  with  my  hand  upon  my  forehead,  sit 
gazing  upon  the  glowing  coals,  and  breath- 
ing quick  and  loud. — The  dream  then  is 
broken  ! 

Presently  I  read  again : 

"You  know  that  my  father  died, 

before  we  had  ever  met.  He  had  an  old 
friend,  who  had  come  from  England  ;  and 
who  in  early  life  had  done  him  some  great 
service,  which  made  him  seem  like  a  brother. 
This  old  gentleman  was  my  god-father,  and 
called  me  daughter.  When  my  father  died, 
he  drew  me  to  his  side,  and  said, — '  Carry, 
I  shall  leave  you,  but  my  old  friend  will  be 
your  father ;'  and  he  put  my  hand  in  his, 
and  said — 'I  give  you  my  daughter.' 

"This  old  gentleman  had  a  son,  older 
than  myself;  but  we  were  much  together, 


EVENING.  277 

and  grew  up  as  brother  and  sister.  I  was 
proud  of  him  ;  for  he  was  tall  and  strong, 
and  every  one  called  him  handsome.  He 
was  as  kind  too,  as  a  brother  could  be ;  and 
his  father*was  like  my  own  father.  Every 
one  said,  and  believed,  that  we  would  one 
day  be  married ;  and  my  mother,  and  my 
new  father  spoke  of  it  openly.  So  did  Lau- 
rence, for  that  is  my  friend's  name. 

"  I  do  not  need  to  tell  you  any  more, 
Paul ;  for  when  I  was  still  a  girl,  we  had 
promised,  that  we  would  one  day  be  man 
and  wife.  Laurence  has  been  much  in 
England ;  and  I  believe  he  is  there  now. 
The  old  gentleman  treats  me  still  as  a 
daughter,  and  talks  of  the  time,  when  I 
shall  come  and  live  with  him.  The  letters 
of  Laurence  are  very  kind ;  and  though  he 
does  not  talk  so  much  of  our  marriage  as 
he  did,  it  is  only,  I  think,  because  he  regards 
it  as  so  certain. 

"  I  have  wished  to  tell  you  all  this  before; 
but  I  have  feared  to  tell  you ;  I  am  afraid 
I  have  been  too  selfish  to  tell  you.  And 
now  what  can  I  say  ?  Laurence  seems  most 

to  me  like  a  brother ; — and  you,  Paul 

but  I  must  not  go  on.  For  if  I  marry  Lau- 
rence, as  fate  seems  to  have  decided,  I  will 
try  and  love  him,  better  than  all  the  world. 

"  But  will  you  not  be  a  brother,  and  love 
me,  as  you  once  loved  Bella ; — you  say  my 


*78  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

eyes  are  like  hers,  and  that  my  forehead 
is  like  hers  ; — will  you  not  believe  that  my 
heart  is  like  hers  too  ? 

"  Paul,  if  you  shed  tears  over  this  letter 
—I  have  shed  them  as  well  as  you.  I  can 
write  no  more  now. 

"Adieu." 

I  sit  long  looking  upon  the  blaze ;  and 
when  I  rouse  myself,  it  is  to  say  wicked 
things  against  destiny.  Again,  all  the 
future  seems  very  blank.  I  cannot  love 
Carry,  as  I  loved  Bella ;  she  cannot  be  a 
sister  to  me ;  she  must  be  more,  or  noth- 
ing !  Again,  I  seem  to  float  singly  on  the 
tide  of  life,  and  see  all  around  me  in  cheer- 
ful groups.  Everywhere  the  sun  shines, 
except  upon  my  own  cold  forehead.  There 
seems  no  mercy  in  Heaven,  and  no  goodness 
for  me  upon  Earth. 

I  write  after  some  days,  an  answer  to 
the  letter.  But  it  is  a  bitter  answer,  in 
which  I  forget  myself,  in  the  whirl  of  my 
misfortunes — to  the  utterance  of  re- 
proaches. 

Her  reply,  which  comes  speedily,  is  sweet, 
and  gentle.  She  is  hurt  by  my  reproaches, 
deeply  hurt.  But  with  a  touching  kind- 
ness, of  which  I  am  not  worthy,  she  credits 
all  my  petulance  to  my  wounded  feeling ; 
she  soothes  me;  but  in  soothing,  only 


EVENING. 


279 


wounds  the  more.  I  try  to  believe  her, 
when  she  speaks  of  her  unworthiness ;— but 
I  cannot. 

Business,  and  the  pursuits  of  ambition 
or  of  interest,  pass  on  like  dull,  grating 
machinery.  Tasks  are  met,  and  performed 
with  strength  indeed,  but  with  no  cheer. 
Courage  is  high,  as  I  meet  the  shocks,  and 
trials  of  the  world ;  but  it  is  a  brute,  care- 
less courage,  that  glories  in  opposition.  I 
laugh  at  any  dangers,  or  any  insidious  pit- 
falls ;— what  are  they  to  me  ?  What  do  I 
possess,  which  it  will  be  hard  to  lose  ?  My 
dog  keeps  by  me;  my  toils  are  present; 
my  food  is  ready;  my  limbs  are  strong; 
what  need  for  more  ? 

The  months  slip  by ;  and  the  cloud  that 
floated  over  my  evening  sun,  passes. 

Laurence  wandering  abroad,  and  writing 
to  Caroline,  as  to  a  sister, — writes  more 
than  his  father  could  have  wished.  He 
has  met  new  faces,  very  sweet  faces ;  and 
one  which  shows  through  the  ink  of  his 
later  letters,  very  gorgeously.  The  old 
gentleman  does  not  like  to  lose  thus  his 
little  Carry;  and  he  writes  back  rebuke. 
But  Laurence,  with  the  letters  of  Caroline 
before  him  for  data,  throws  himself  upon 
his  sister's  kindness,  and  charity.  It  as- 
tonishes not  a  little  the  old  gentleman,  to 
find  his  daughter  pleading  in  such 


28o  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

strange  way,  for  the  son.  "  And  what 
will  you  do  then,  my  Carry?" — the  old 
man  says. 

"Wear  weeds,  if  you  wish,  sir;  and 

love  you  and  Laurence  more  than  ever ! " 

And  he  takes  her  to  his  bosom,  and  says 
—"Carry — Carry,  you  are  too  good  for 
that  wild  fellow  Laurence  ! " 

Now,  the  letters  are  different!  Now 
they  are  full  of  hope— dawning  all  over 
the  future  sky.  Business,  and  care,  and 
toil,  glide,  as  if  a  spirit  animated  them  all ; 
it  is  no  longer  cold  machine  work,  but  in- 
telligent, and  hopeful  activity.  The  sky 
hangs  upon  you  lovingly,  and  the  birds 
make  music,  that  startles  you  with  its  fine- 
ness. Men  wear  cheerful  faces  ;  the  storms 
have  a  kind  pity,  gleaming  through  all 
their  wrath. 

The  days  approach,  when  you  can  call 
her  yours.  For  she  has  said  it,  and  her 
mother  has  said  it ;  and  the  kind  old  gen- 
tleman, who  says  he  will  still  be  her  father, 
has  said  it  too;  and  they  have  all  wel- 
comed you — won  by  her  story — with  a  cor- 
diality, that  has  made  your  cup  full,  to  run- 
ning over.  Only  one  thought  comes  up  to 
obscure  your  joy; — is  it  real?  or  if  real, 
are  you  worthy  to  enjoy?  Will  you  cher- 
ish and  love  always,  as  you  have  promised, 
that  angel  who  accepts  your  word,  and 


EVENING.  281 

rests  her  happiness  on  your  faith?  Are 
there  not  harsh  qualities  in  your  nature, 
which  you  fear  may  sometime  make  her 
regret  that  she  gave  herself  to  your  love 
and  charity?  And  those  friends  who 
watch  over  her,  as  the  apple  of  their  eye, 
:an  you  always  meet  their  tenderness  and 
approval,  for  your  guardianship  of  their 
treasure  ?  Is  it  not  a  treasure  that  makes 
you  fearful,  as  well  as  joyful  ? 

But  you  forget  this  in  her  smile :  her 
kindness,  her  goodness,  her  modesty,  will 
not  let  you  remember  it.  She  forbids  such 
thoughts  ;  and  you  yield  such  obedience, 
as  you  never  yielded  even  to  the  com 
mands  of  a  mother.  And  if  your  business, 
and  your  labor  slip  by,  partially  neglected 
— what  matters  it?  What  is  interest,  or 
what  is  reputation,  compared  with  that  full- 
ness of  your  heart,  which  is  now  ripe  with 
joy? 

The  day  for  your  marriage  comes ;  and 
you  live  as  if  you  were  in  a  dream.  You 
think  well,  and  hope  well  for  all  the  world. 
A  flood  of  charity  seems  to  radiate  from 
all  around  you.  And  as  you  sit  beside  her 
in  the  twilight,  on  the  evening  before  the 
day,  when  you  will  call  her  yours,  and  talk 
of  the  coming  hopes,  and  of  the  soft  shad- 
ows of  the  past;  and  whisper  of  Bella's 
love,  and  of  that  sweet  sister's  death,  and 
'9 


282  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

of  Laurence,  a  new  brother,  coming  home 
joyful  with  his  bride, — and  lay  your  cheek 
to  hers — life  seems  as  if  it  were  all  day, 
and  as  if  there  could  be  no  night ! 

The  marriage  passes ;  and  she  is  yours, 
t— yours  forever. 


NEW  TRAVEL. 

AGAIN  I  am  upon  the  sea ;  but  not  alone. 
She  whom  I  first  met  upon  the  wastes  of 
ocean,  is  there  beside  me.  Again  I  steady 
her  tottering  step  upon  the  deck  ;  once  it 
was  a  drifting,  careless  pleasure ;  now  the 
pleasure  is  holy. 

Once  the  fear  I  felt,  as  the  storms  gath- 
ered, and  night  came,  and  the  ship  tossed 
madly,  and  great  waves  gathering  swift  and 
high,  came  down  like  slipping  mountains, 
and  spent  their  force  upon  the  quivering 
vessel,  was  a  selfish  fear.  But  it  is  so  no 
longer.  Indeed  I  hardly  know  fear;  for 
how  can  the  tempests  harm  kerf  Is  she 
not  too  good  to  suffer  any  of  the  wrath  of 
heaven  ? 

And  in  nights  of  calm, — holy  nights,  we 
lean  over  the  ship's  side,  looking  down, 
as  once  before,  into  the  dark  depths,  and 
murmur  again  snatches  of  ocean  song,  and 


EVENING.  2&3 

talk  of  thooe  we  love;  and  we  peer  among 
the  stars,  which  seem  neighborly,  and  as  it 
they  were  the  homes  of  friends.  And  as 
the  great  ocean-swells  come  rocking  under 
us,  and  carry  us  up  and  down  along  the 
valleys  and  the  hills  of  water,  they  seem 
like  deep  pulsations  of  the  great  heart  of 
nature,  heaving  us  forward  toward  the  goal 
of  life,  and  to  the  gates  of  heaven ! 

We  watch  the  ships  as  they  come  upon 
the  horizon,  and  sweep  toward  us,  like  false 
friends,  with  the  sun  glittering  on  their 
sails ;  and  then  shift  their  course,  and  bear 
away— with  their  bright  sails,  turned  to 
spots  of  shadow.  We  watch  the  long 
winged  birds  skimming  the  waves  hour 
after  hour,— like  pleasant  thoughts— now 
dashing  before  our  bows,  and  then  sweep- 
ing  behind,  until  they  are  lost  in  the  hoi- 
lows  of  the  water. 

Again  life  lies  open,  as  it  did  once  before  • 
but  the  regrets,  disappointments,  and  fruit- 
less  resolves  do  not  come  to  trouble  me 
now.  It  is  the  future,  which  has  become 
au  I  as  the  sea>  and^  is  beside  me,— 
the  sharer  in  that  future— to  look  out  with 
me,  upon  the  joyous  sparkle  of  water,  and 
to  count  with  me,  the  dazzling  ripples  that 
he  between  us  and  the  shore.  A  thousand 
pleasant  plans  come  up,  and  are  abandoned 
like  the  waves  we  leave  behind  us ;  a  thou 


284          REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

sand  other  joyous  plans,  dawn  upon  our 
fancy,  like  the  waves  that  glitter  before  us. 
We  talk  of  Laurence  and  his  bride,  whom 
we  are  to  meet ;  we  talk  of  her  mother, 
who  is  even  now  watching  the  winds  that 
waft  her  child  over  the  ocean ;  we  talk  of 
the  kindly  old  man,  her  god-father,  who 
gave  her  a  father's  blessing ;  we  talk  low, 
and  in  the  twilight  hours,  of  Isabel — who 


At  length,  as  the  sun  goes  down  upon  a 
fair  night,  over  the  western  waters  which 
we  have  passed,  we  see  before  us,  the  low 
blue  line  of  the  shores  of  Cornwall  and 
Devon.  In  the  night,  shadowy  ships  glide 
past  us  with  gleaming  lanterns ;  and  in  the 
morning,  we  see  the  yellow  cliffs  of  the 
Isle  of  Wight ;  and  standing  out  from  the 
land,  is  the  dingy  sail  of  our  pilot.  London 
with  its  fog,  roar,  and  crowds,  has  not  the 
same  charms  that  it  once  had ;  that  roar 
and  crowd  is  good  to  make  a  man  forget 
his  griefs — forget  himself,  and  stupify  him 
with  amazement.  We  are  in  no  need  of 
such  forgetfulness. 

We  roll  along  the  banks  of  the  sylvan 
river  that  glides  by  Hampton  Court ;  and 
we  toil  up  Richmond  Hill,  to  look  together 
upon  that  scene  of  water,  and  meadow, — 
of  leafy  copses,  and  glistening  villas,  of 
brown  cottages,  and  clustered  hamlets,— of 


EVENING. 


solitary  oaks,  and  loitering  herds—  all  spread 
hke  a  veil  of  beauty,  upon  the  bosom  of  the 
1  names  But  we  cannot  linger  here,  nor 
even  under  the  glorious  old  boles  of  Wind- 
k  orest  ;  but  we  hurry  on  to  that  sweet 
county  of  Devon,  made  green  with  its  white 
skeins  of  water. 

Again  we  loiter  under  the  oaks,  where 
we  have  loitered  before  ;  and  the  sleek 
deer  gaze  on  us  with  their  liquid  eyes,  as 
the-y  gazed  before.  The  squirrels  sport 
among  the  boughs  as  fearless  as  ever;  and 
some  wandering  puss  pricks  her  long  ears 
at  out  steps,  and  bounds  off  along  the 
hedge  rows  to  her  burrow.  Again  I  see 
Carry  m  her  velvet  riding-cap,  with  the 
white  plume  ;  and  I  meet  her  as  I  met  her 
before,  under  the  princely  trees  that  skirt 
tne  northern  avenue.  I  recal  the  evenin^ 
when  I  sauntered  out  at  the  park  gates3 
and  gamed  a  blessing  from  the  porter's 
wife,  and  dreamed  that  strange  dream  •  _  - 
now,  the  dream  seems  more  real,  than  my 

a  am"  7°U  !  "~Said  the  woma* 

~~*  Aye,  old  lady,  God  has  blessed  me!  " 


The  bland  farmer  lives  yet  ;  he  scarce 
knows  me,  until  I  tell  him  of  my  bout 
around  his  oat-field,  at  the  tail  of  his  long 


?86  REVERIES  Of  A  BACHELOR. 

stilted  plough.  I  find  the  old  pew  in  the 
parish  church.  Other  holly  sprigs  are  hung 
now ;  and  I  do  not  doze,  for  Carry  is  beside 
me.  The  curate  drawls  the  service ;  but  it 
is  pleasant  to  listen;  and  I  make  the  re- 
sponses with  an  emphasis,  that  tells  more 
I  fear,  for  my  joy,  than  for  my  religion. 
The  old  groom  at  the  mansion  in  the  Park, 
has  not  forgotten  the  hard-riding  of  other 
days ;  and  tells  long  stories  (to  which  I  love 
to  listen)  of  the  old  visit  of  mistress  Carry, 
when  she  followed  the  hounds  with  the 
best  of  the  English  lasses. 

— "  Yer  honor  may  well  be  proud  ;  for 
not  a  prettier  face,  or  a  kinder  heart  has 
been  in  Devon,  since  mistress  Carry  left 
us!" 

But  pleasant  as  are  the  old  woods,  full  of 
memories,  and  pleasant  as  are  the  twilight 
evenings  upon  the  terrace — we  must  pass 
over  to  the  mountains  of  Switzerland. 
There  we  are  to  meet  Laurence. 

Carry  has  never  seen  the  magnificence 
of  thejuras;  and  as  we  journey  over  the 
hills  between  Dole,  and  the  border  line,  look- 
ing upon  the  rolling  heights -shrouded  with 
pine  trees,  and  down  thousands  of  feet,  at 
the  very  road  side,  upon  the  cottage  roofs, 
and  emerald  valleys,  where  the  dun  herds 
are  feeding  quietly,  she  is  lost  in  admira- 
tion. At  length  we  come  to  that  point 


EVENING.  287, 

above  the  little  town  of  Gex,  from  which 
you  see  spread  out  before  you,  the  mead- 
ows  that  skirt  Geneva,  the  placid  surface 
ot  Lake  Leman,  and  the  rough,  shag-cry 
mountains  of  Savoy  ;-and  far  behind 
them,  breaking  the  horizon  with  snowy 
cap,  and  with  dark  pinnacles— Mont  Blanc 
and  the  Needles  of  Chamouni. 

I  point  out  to  her  in  the  vally  below 
the  little  town  of  Ferney,  where  stands- 
the  deserted  chateau  of  Voltaire ;  and  be- 
yond, upon  the  shores  of  the  lake,  the  old 
home  of  de  Stael ;  and  across,  with  its- 
white  walls  reflected  upon  the  bosom  of 
the  water,  the  house  where  Byron  wrote 
the  prisoner  of  Chillon.  Among  the  group- 
ing roofs  of  Geneva,  we  trace  the  dark 
cathedral,  and  the  tall  hotels  shining  on 
the  edge  of  the  lake.  And  I  tell  of  the 
time,  when  I  tramped  down  through  yon- 
der  valley,  with  my  future  all  visionary 
and  broken,  and  drank  the  splendour  of 
the  scene,  only  as  a  quick  relief  to  the 
monotony  of  my  solitary  life. 

— -"  And  now,  Carry,  with  your  hand 
locked  m  mine,  and  your  heart  mine— yon- 
der lake  sleeping  in  the  sun,  and  the 
snowy  mountains  with  their  rosy  hue  seem 
35ftC  Smile  °f  nature>  bidding  us  be 
Laurence  is  at  Geneva;  he  welcomes 


288  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

Carry,  as  he  would  welcome  a  sister.  He 
is  a  noble  fellow,  and  tells  me  much  of  his 
sweet  Italian  wife;  and  presents  me  to  the 

smiling,  blushing Enrica  !  She  has 

learned  English  now ;  she  has  found,  she 
says,  a  better  teacher,  than  ever  I  was. 
Yet  she  welcomes  me  warmly,  as  a  sister 
might ;  and  we  talk  of  those  old  evenings 
by  the  blazing  fire,  and  of  the  one-eyed 
Maestro,  as  children  long  separated,  might 
talk  of  their  school  tasks,  and  of  their 
teachers.  She  cannot  tell  me  enough 
of  her  praises  of  Laurence,  and  of  his 
noble  heart. — "You  were  good," — she  says, 
— "  but  Laurence  is  better." 

Carry  admires  her  soft  brown  hair,  and 
her  deep  liquid  eye,  and  wonders  how  I 
could  ever  have  left  Rome  ? 

Do  you  indeed  wonder — Carry  ? 

And  together  we  go  down  into  Savoy, 
to  that  marvellous  valley,  which  lies  under 
the  shoulder  of  Mont  Blanc ;  and  we  wan- 
der over  the  Mer  de  Glace,  and  pick  Alpine 
roses  from  the  edge  of  the  frowning  glacier. 
We  toil  at  night-fall  up  to  the  monastery  of 
the  Great  St.  Bernard,  where  the  new  form- 
ing ice  crackles  in  the  narrow  foot-way, 
and  the  cold  moon  glistens  over  wastes  of 
snow,  and  upon  the  windows  of  the  dark 
Hospice.  Again,  we  are  among  the  granite 
heights,  whose  ledges  are  filled  with  ice, 


EVENING.  289 

r  Vlf  Grir?sel  The  Pond  is  dark  and 
cold;  the  paths  are  slippery;— the  great 
glacier  of  the  Aar  sends  down  icy  breezes 
and  the  echoes  ring  from  rock  to  rock  as' 
it  the  ice-God  answered.  And  yet  we 
neither  suffer,  nor  fear. 

In  the  sweet  valley  of  Meyringen,  we 
part  from  Laurence :  he  goes  northward, 
by  Grmdenwald,  and  Thun,— thence  to 
journey  westward,  and  to  make  for  the 
Koman  girl,  a  home  beyond  the  ocean 
Knnca  bids  me  go  on  to  Rome :  she  knows 
that  Carry  will  love  its  soft  warm  air  its 
rums,  its  pictures  and  temples,  better  than 
these^  cold  valleys  of  Switzerland.  And 
>he  gives  me  kind  messages  for  her  mother, 
?1  t  are;  andsh°uldwe  be  in  Rome 
at  the  Easter  season,  she  bids  us  remember 
her,  when  we  listen  to  the  Miserere,  and 
when  we  seethe  great  Chiesa  on  fire,  and 
when  we  saunter  upon  the  Pincian  hill; 
-—and  remember,  that  it  is  her  home. 

We  follow  them  with  our  eyes,  as  they 
go  up  the  steep  height  over  which  falls  the 
white  foam  of  the  clattering  Reichenbach  ; 
and  they  wave  their  hands  toward  us,  and 
disappear  upon  the  little  plateau  which 

rt£  t° ft*  ^f£d  th-e  ^^  R°senlaui,  and 
the  tall,  still,  Engei-Horner. 

May  the  mountain  angels  guard  them  t 
As  we  journey  on  toward  that  wonderful 


290  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

pass  of  Splugen,  I  recall  by  the  way,  upon 
the  heights,  and  in  the  valleys,  the  spots 
where  I  lingered  years  before; — here,  I 
plucked  a  flower,  there,  I  drank  from  that 
cold,  yellow  glacier  water ;  and  here,  upon 
some  rock  overlooking  a  stretch  of  broken 
mountains,  hoary  with  their  eternal  frosts, 
I  sat  musing  upon  that  very  Future,  which 
is  with  me  now.  But  never,  even  when 
the  ice-genii  were  most  prodigal  of  their 
fancies  to  the  wanderer,  did  I  look  for  more 
joy,  or  a  better  angel. 

Afterward,  when  all  our  trembling  upon 
the  Alpine  paths  has  gone  by,  we  are  roll- 
ing along  under  the  chestnuts  and  lindens 
that  skirt  the  banks  of  Como.  We  recall 
that  sweet  story  of  Manzoni,  and  I  point 
out,  as  well  as  I  may,  the  loitering  place  of 
the  bravi,  and  the  track  of  poor  Don  Abbon- 
dio.  We  follow  in  the  path  of  the  discom- 
fited Renzi,  to  where  the  dainty  spire,  and 
pinnacles  of  the  Duomo  of  Milan,  glisten 
against  the  violet  sky. 

Carry  longs  to  see  Venice ;  its  water- 
streets,  and  palaces  have  long  floated  in 
her  visions.  In  the  bustling  activity  of 
our  own  country,  and  in  the  quiet  fields  of 
England,  that  strange,  half-deserted  capi- 
tal, lying  in  the  Adriatic,  has  taken  the 
strongest  hold  upon  her  fancy. 

So  we  leave  Padua,  and  Verona  behind 


EVENING.  291 

us,  and  find  ourselves  upon  a  soft  spring 
noon,  upon  the  end  of  the  iron  road  which 
stretches  across  the  lagoon,  toward  Venice. 
With  the  hissing  of  steam  in  the  ear,  it  is 
hard  to  think  of  the  wonderful  city,  we  are 
approaching.  But  as  we  escape  from  the 
carriage,  and  set  our  feet  down  into  one  of 
those  strange,  hearse-like,  ancient  boats, 
with  its  sharp  iron  prow,  and  listen  to  the 
melodious  rolling  tongue  of  the  Venetian 
gondolier: — as  we  see  rising  over  the 
watery  plain  before  us,  all  glittering  in  the 
sun,  tall,  square  towers  with  pyramidal 
tops,  and  clustered  domes,  and  minarets; 
and  sparkling  roofs  lifting  from  marble 
walls — all  so  like  the  old  paintings; — and 
as  we  glide  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  float- 
ing wonder,  under  the  silent  working  oar, 
of  our  now  silent  gondolier; — as  we  ride 
up  swiftly  under  the  deep,  broad  shadows 
of  palaces,  and  see  plainly  the  play  of  the 
sea-water  in  the  crevices  of  the  masonry, 
— and  turn  into  narrow  rivers  shaded 
darjdy  by  overhanging  walls,  hearing  no 
sound,  but  of  voices,  or  the  swaying  of  the 
water  against  the  houses, — we  feel  the 
presence  of  the  place.  And  the  mystic 
fingers  of  the  Past,  grappling  our  spirits, 
lead  them  away — willing  and  rejoicing  cap- 
tives, through  the  long  vista  of  the  ages, 
that  are  gone. 


292  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

Carry  is  in  a  trance ; — rapt  by  the  witch- 
ery of  the  scene,  into  dream.  This  is  her 
Venice ;  nor  have  all  the  visions  that 
played  upon  her  fancy,  been  equal  to  the 
enchanting  presence  of  this  hour  of  ap- 
proach. 

Afterward,  it  becomes  a  living  thing, — 
stealing  upon  the  affections,  and  upon  the 
imagination  by  a  thousand  coy  advances. 
We  wander  under  the  warm  Italian  sun- 
light to  the  steps  from  which  rolled  the 
white  head  of  poor  Marino  Faliero.  The 
gentle  Carry  can  now  thrust  her  ungloved 
hand,  into  the  terrible  Lion's  mouth.  We 
enter  the  salon  of  the  fearful  Ten  ;  and 
peep  through  the  half  opened  door,  into  the 
cabinet  of  the  more  fearful  Three.  We 
go  through  the  deep  dungeons  of  Carmag- 
nola  and  of  Carrara ;  and  we  instruct  the 
willing  gondolier  to  push  his  dark  boat 
under  the  Bridge  of  Sighs ;  and  with  Rogers' 
poem  in  our  hand,  glide  up  to  the  prison 
door,  and  read  of — 


-that  fearful  closet  at  the  foot 


Lurking  for  prey,  which,  when  a  victim  came, 
Grew  less  and  less,  contracting  to  a  span 
An  iron  door,  urged  onward  by  a  screw, 
Forcing  out  life ! 

I  sail,  listening  to  nothing  but  the  dip  of 
the  gondolier's  oar,  or  to  her  gentle  words, 


EVENING.  293 

fast  unaer  the  palace  door,  which  closed 
that  fearful  morning,  on  the  guilt  and 
shame  of  Bianca  Capello.  Or,  with  souls 
lit  up  by  the  scene,  into  a  buoyancy  that 
can  scarce  distinguish  between  what  is  real, 
and  what  is  merely  written,-— we  chase  the 
anxious  step  of  the  forsaken  Corinna;  or 
seek  among  the  veteran  palaces  the  case- 
ment of  the  old  Brabantio,— the  chamber 
of  Desdemona,  — the  house  of  Jessica,  and 
trace  among  the  strange  Jew  money-^ 
changers,  who  yet  haunt  the  Rialto,  the 
likeness  of  the  bearded  Shylock.  We 
wander  into  stately  churches,  brushing 
over  grass,  or  tell-tale  flowers  that  grow  in 
the  court,  and  find  them  damp  and  cheer- 
less ;  the  incense  rises  murkily,  and  rests 
in  a  thick  cloud  over  the  altars,  and  over 
the  paintings  ;  the  music,  if  so  be  that  the 
organ  notes  are  swelling  under  the  roof, 
is  mournfully  plaintive. 

Of  an  afternoon  we  sail  over  to  the  Lido,, 
to  gladden  our  eyes  with  a  sight  of  land 
and  green  things,  and  we  pass  none  upon 
the  way,  save  silent  oarsmen,  with  barges 
piled  high  with  the  produce  of  their  gar- 
dens,— pushing  their  way  down  toward 
the  floating  city.  And  upon  the  narrow 
island,  we  find  Jewish  graves,  half  covered 
by  drifted  sand;  and  from  among  them, 
watch  the  sunset  glimmering  over  a  deso- 


294  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

late  level  of  water.  As  we  glide  back, 
lights  lift  over  the  Lagoon,  and  double 
along  the  Guideca,  and  the  Grand  Canal. 
The  little  neighbor  isles  will  have  their 
company  of  lights  dancing  in  the  water ; 
and  from  among  them,  will  rise  up  against 
the  mellow  evening  sky  of  Italy,  gaunt, 
unlighted  houses. 

After  the  nightfall,  which  brings  no 
harmful  dew  with  it,  I  stroll,  with  her  hand 
within  my  arm, — as  once  upon  the  sea, 
and  in  the  English  Park,  and  in  the  home- 
land— over  that  great  square  which  lies  be- 
fore the  palace  of  St.  Marks.  The  white 
moon  is  riding  in  the  middle  heaven,  like  a 
globe  of  silver ;  the  gondoliers  stride  over 
the  echoing  stones ;  and  their  long  black 
shadows,  stretching  over  the  pavement,  or 
shaking  upon  the  moving  water,  seem  like 
great  funereal  plumes,  waving  over  the 
bier  of  Venice. 

Carrying  thence  whole  treasures  of 
thought  and  fancy,  to  feed  upon  in  the  after 
years,  we  wander  to  Rome. 

I  find  the  old  one-eyed  maestro,  and  am 
met  with  cordial  welcome  by  the  mother  of 
the  pretty  Enrica.  The  Count  has  gone  to 
the  marches  of  Ancona.  Lame  Pietro  still 
shuffles  around  the  boards  at  the  Lepre, 
and  the  flower  sellers  at  the  corner,  bind 
me  a  more  brilliant  bouquet  than  ever,  for 


EVENING. 


295 


a  new  beauty  at  Rome.  As  we  ramble 
under  the  broken  arches  of  the  great  aque- 
duct stretching  toward  Frascati,  I  tell 
Carry,  the  story  of  my  trip  in  the  Appe- 
nines ;  and  we  search  for  the  pretty  Carlotta. 
But  she  is  married,  they  tell  us,  to  a 
Neapolitan  guardsman.  In  the  spring  twi- 
light, we  wander  upon  those  heights  which 
lie  between  Frascati  and  Albano  ;  and  look- 
ing westward,  see  that  glorious  view  of  the 
Campagna,  which  can  never  be  forgotten. 
But  beyond  the  Campagna,  and  beyond  the 
huge  hulk  of  St.  Peter's,  heaving  into  the 
sky  from  the  middle  waste,  we  see,  or  fancy 
we  see,  a  glimpse  of  the  sea,  which  stretches 
out  and  on  to  the  land  we  love,  better  than 
Rome.  And  in  fancy,  we  build  up  that 
home,  which  shall  belong  to  us,  on  the  re- 
turn ; — a  home,  that  has  slumbered  long  in 
the  future  ;  and  which,  now  that  the  future 
has  come,  lies  fairly  before  me. 


HOME. 

YEARS  seem  to  have  passed.  They  have 
mellowed  life  into  ripeness.  The  start, 
and  change,  and  hot  ambition  of  youth, 
seem  to  have  gone  by.  A  calm,  and  joyful 
quietude  has  succeeded.  That  future 


296  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

which  still  lies  before  me,  seems  like  a  ros- 
eate twilight,  sinking  into  a  peaceful,  and 
silent  night. 

My  home  is  a  cottage,  near  that  where 
Isabel  once  lived.  The  same  valley  is 
around  me  ;  the  same  brook  rustles,  and 
loiters  under  the  gnarled  roots  of  the  over- 
hanging trees.  The  cottage  is  no  mock 
cottage,  but  a  substantial,  wide  spreading 
cottage,  with  clustering  gables,  and  ample 
shade  ; — such  a  cottage  as  they  build  upon 
the  slopes  of  Devon.  Vines  clamber  over 
it,  and  the  stones  show  mossy  through 
the  interlacing  climbers.  There  are  low 
porches,  with  cozy  arm  chairs ;  and  gen- 
erous oriels,  fragrant  with  mignionette,  and 
the  blue  blossoming  violets. 

The  chimney  stacks  rise  high,  and  show 
clear  against  the  heavy  pine  trees,  that 
ward  off  the  blasts  of  winter.  The  dove- 
cote, is  a  habited  dovecote,  and  the  purple- 
necked  pigeons  swoop  around  the  roofs,  in 
great  companies.  The  hawthorn  is  budding 
into  its  June  fragrance  along  all  the  lines  of 
fence;  and  the  paths  are  trim,  and  clean. 
The  shrubs, — our  neglected  azalias  and  rho- 
dodendrons chiefest  among  them — stand  in 
K'cturesque  groups  upon  the  close  shaven 
wn. 

The  gateway  in  the  thicket  below,  is  be- 
tween two  mossy  old  posts  of  stone  ;  and 


EVENING,  297 

there  Is  a  tall  hemlock  flanked  by  a  sturdy 
pine,  for  sentinel.  Within  the  cottage,  the 
library  is  wainscotted  with  native  oak ;  and 
my  trusty  gun  hangs  upon  a  branching 
pair  of  antlers.  My  rod  and  nets  are  dis- 
posed above  the  generous,  bookshelves; 
and  a  stout  eagle,  once  a  tenant  of  the 
native  woods,  sits  perched  over  the  central 
alcove.  An  old  fashioned  mantel  is  above 
the  brown  stone  jams  of  the  country  fire- 
place; and  along  it  are  distributed  records  of 
travel ; — little  bronze  temples  from  Rome, 
the/z>/n?  duro  of  Florence,  the  porcelain 
busts  of  Dresden,  the  rich  iron  of  Berlin, 
and  a  cup  fashioned  from  a  stag's  horn, 
from  the  Black  Forest  by  the  Rhine. 

Massive  chairs  stand  here  and  there,  in 
tempting  attitude ;  strewed  over  an  oaken 
table  in  the  middle,  are  the  uncut  papers, 
and  volumes  of  the  day ;  and  upon  a  lion's 
skin  stretched  before  the  hearth,  is  lying 
another  Tray. 

But  this  is  not  all.  There  are  children 
in  the  cottage.  There  is  Jamie— we  think 
him  handsome — for  he  has  the  dark  hair  of 
his  mother, — and  the  same  black  eye,  with 
its  long,  heavy  fringe.  There  is  Carry^ 
little  Carry  I  must  call  her  now— with  a 
face  full  of  glee,  and  rosy  with  health ;  then 
there  is  a  little  rogue  some  two  years  old, 
whom  we  call  Paul — a  very  bad  boy, — as  we 
tell  him. 


jgS  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

The  mother  is  as  beautiful  as  ever,  and  far 
more  dear  to  me ;  for  gratitude  has  been 
adding,  year  by  year,  to  love.  There  have 
been  times  when  a  harsh  word  of  mine, 
uttered  in  the  fatigues  of  business,  has 
touched  her ;  and  I  have  seen  that  soft  eya 
fill  with  tears ;  and  I  have  upbraided  my- 
self for  causing  her  one  pang.  But  such 
things  she  does  not  remember  ;  or  remem- 
bers, only  to  cover  with  her  gentle  forgive- 
ness. 

Laurence  and  Enrica  are  living  near  us. 
And  the  old  gentleman,  who  was  Carry's 
god-father,  sits  with  me,  on  sunny  days 
upon  the  porch,  and  takes  little  Paul  upon 
his  knee,  and  wonders  if  two  such  daughters 
as  Enrica  and  Carry  are  to  be  found  in  the 
world.  At  twilight  we  ride  over  to  see 
Laurence ;  Jamie  mounts  with  the  coach- 
man; little  Carry  puts  on  her  wide-rimmed 
Leghorn  for  the  evening  visit ;  and  the  old 
gentleman's  plea  for  Paul,  cannot  be  denied. 
The  mother  too  is  with  us ;  and  old  Tray 
comes  whisking  along,  now  frolicking  be- 
fore the  horses  heads,  and  then  bounding 
off  after  the  flight  of  some  belated  bird. 

Away  from  that  cottage  home,  I  seem 
away  from  life.  Within  it,  that  broad,  and 
shadowy  future;  which  lay  before  me  in 
boyhood  and  in  youth,  is  garnered, — like  a 
fine  mist,  gathered  into  drops  of  crystal. 


EVENING. 

ZW 

And  when  away— those  long  letters,  dat- 
ing from  the  cottage  home,  are  what  tie  me 
to  life.  That  cherished  wife,  far  dearer  to 
me  now  than  when  she  wrote  that  first 
letter  which  seemed  a  dark  veil  between 
derlt  thj;  ^re-writes  me  now,  as  ten. 
derly  as  then  She  narrates,  in  her  deli- 
Si6  ,Wai7' a11  the,  ^dents  of  the  home  life; 
she  tells  me  of  their  rides,  and  of  the* 
games,  and  of  the  new  planted  trees  -of 
all  their  sunny  days,  and  of  their  frolics  on 

in*  'r? J  l^'f118  ™G  how  Ja™e  ^  study 
ing,  and  of  little  Carry's  beauty,  growing 

SEl^ifi?  <*«****  Paul-^like  fiS 
earhrfffc  lu"5ndS    me  a  kiss  fr°™ 

oh  ?rthrm^and  bld\me  such  adieu,  and 
such  'God  s  blessing,'  that  it  seems  as  if 
an  angel  guarded  me. 

a  postscript:  n0t  aU  ;  f°r  Jamle  has  Written 

.-—"Dear  Father,"  he  says,  "mother 

Wh  ?  meJ°  tdl  >^OU  how  1  am  study  ng 
What  would  you  think,  father,  to  have  me 
raiic  m  French  to  you,  when  you  come  back? 
I  wish  you  would  come  back  though;  the 
hawthorns  are  coming  out,  and  the  apricot 

If  vous7TAd-W  1S  allfu11  of  blossoms 
[f  you  should  bring  me  a  present,  as  you  al 
most  always  do,-I  would  like  a  fishing  rod. 
"Your  affectionate  son, 

"  JAMIE."     ' 


joo  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

And  little  Carry  has  her  fine,  rambling 
characters  running  into  a  second  postscript. 

"  Why  don't  you  come,  papa ;  you  stay 
too  long ;  I  have  ridden  the  pony  twice ; 
once  he  most  threw  me  off.  This  is  all 
from  CARRY." 

And  Paul  has  taken  the  pen  too,  and  in 
his  extraordinary  effort  to  make  a  big  P, 
has  made  a  very  big  blot.  And  Jamie 
writes  under  it — "  This  is  Paul's  work,  Pa ; 
but  he  says  it's  a  love  blot,  only  he  loves 
you  ten  hundred  times  more." 

And  after  your  return,  Jamie  will  insist 
that  you  should  go  with  him  to  the  brook, 
and  sit  down  with  him  upon  a  tuft  of  the 
brake,  to  fling  off  a  line  into  the  eddies, 
though  only  the  nibbling  roach  are  sporting 
below.  You  have  instructed  the  workmen 
to  spare  the  clumps  of  bank-willows,  that 
the  wood-duck  may  have  a  covert  in  winter, 
and  that  the  Bob-o-Lincolns  may  have  a 
quiet  nesting  place  in  the  spring. 

Sometimes  your  wife, — too  kind  to  deny 
such  favor — will  stroll  with  you  along  the 
meadow  banks,  and  you  pick  meadow 
daisies  in  memory  of  the  old  time.  Little 
Carry  weaves  them  into  rude  chaplets,  to 
dress  the  forehead  of  Paul,  and  they  dance 
along  the  green-sward,  and  switch  off  the 
daffodils,  and  blow  away  the  dandelion 


EVENING.  3oi 

seeds,  to  see  if  their  wishes  are  to  come 
true.  Jamie  holds  a  butter  cup  under 
Carry  s  chin,  to  find  if  she  loves  gold;  and 
Paul,  the  rogue,  teases  them,  by  sticking  a 
thistle  into  sister's  curls. 

The  pony  has  hard  work  to  do  under 
Carry's  swift  riding— but  he  is  fed  by  her 
own  hand,  with  the  cold  breakfast  rolls. 
The  nuts  are  gathered  in  time,  and  stored 
for  long  winter  evenings,  when  the  fire  is 
burning  bright  and  cheerily— a  true,  hickory 
blaze,— which  sends  its  waving  gleams  over 
eager,  smiling  faces,  and  over  well-stored 
book  shelves,  and  portraits  of  dear,  lost 
ones.  While  from  time  to  time,  that  wife, 
who  is  the  soul  of  the  scene,  will  break 
upon  the  children's  prattle,  with  the  silver 
melody  of  her  voice,  running  softly  and 
sweetly  through  the  couplets  of  Crabbe's 
stories,  or  the  witchery  of  the  Flodden 

Then  the  boys  will  guess  conundrums, 
and  play  at  fox  and  geese;  and  Tray,  cher- 
ished in  his  age,  and  old  Milo  petted  in  his 
dotage,  he  side  by  side,  upon  the  lion's 
skin,  before  the  blazing  hearth.  Little 
1  omtit  the  goldfinch  sits  sleeping  on  his 
perch,  or  cocks  his  eye  at  a  sudden  crack- 
ling  of  the  fire,  for  a  familiar  squint  upon 
our  family  group. 

But  there  is  no  future  without  its  strag^ 


302  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR, 

gling  clouds.  Even  now  a  shadow  is  trail- 
ing along  the  landscape. 

It  is  a  soft  and  mild  day  of  summer. 
The  leaves  are  at  their  fullest.  A  southern 
breeze  has  been  blowing  up  the  valley  all 
the  morning,  and  the  light,  smoky  haze 
hangs  in  the  distant  mountain  gaps,  like  a 
veil  on  beauty.  Jamie  has  been  busy  with 
his  lessons,  and  afterward  playing  with 
Milo  upon  the  lawn.  Little  Carry  has 
come  in  from  a  long  ride — her  face  bloom- 
ing, and  her  eyes  all  smiles,  and  joy.  The 
mother  has  busied  herself  with  those  flowers 
she  loves  so  well.  Little  Paul,  they  say, 
has  been  playing  in  the  meadow,  and  old 
Tray  has  gone  with  him. 

But  at  dinner  time,  Paul  has  not  come 
back. 

"  Paul  ought  not  to  ramble  off  so  far,"  I 
say. 

The  mother  says  nothing ;  but  there  is  a 
look  of  anxiety  upon  her  face,  that  disturbs 
me.  Jamie  wonders  where  Paul  can  be, 
and  he  saves  for  him,  whatever  he  knows 
;  Paul  will  like — a  heaping  plate-full.  But 
the  dinner  hour  passes,  and  Paul  does  not 
come.  Old  Tray  lies  in  the  sun-shine  by 
the  porch. 

Now  the  mother  is  indeed  anxious.  And 
I,  though  I  conceal  this  from  her,  find  my 
fears  strangely  active.  Something  like 


EVENING.  305 

instinct  guides  me  to  the  meadow  :  I  wan- 
der down  the  brook-side  calling — Paul ! — 
Paul !  But  there  is  no  answer. 

All  the  afternoon  we  search,  and  the 
neighbors  search  ;  but  it  is  a  fruitless  toil. 
There  is  no  joy  that  evening:  the  meal 
passes  in  silence ;  only  little  Carry  with 
tears  in  her  eyes,  asks, — if  Paul  will  soon 
come  back  ?  All  the  night  we  search  and 
call : — the  mother  even  braving  the  night 
air,  and  running  here  and  there,  until  the 
morning  finds  us  sad,  and  despairing. 

That  day — the  next — cleared  up  the 
mystery;  but  cleared  it  up  with  darkness. 
Poor  little  Paul!— he  has  sunk  under  the 
murderous  eddies  of  the  brook !  His  boy- 
ish prattle,  his  rosy  smiles,  his  artless  talk, 
are  lost  to  us  forever  ! 

I  will  not  tell  how  nor  when  we  found 
him  :  nor  will  I  tell  of  our  desolate  home, 
and  of  her  grief — the  first  crushing  grief  of 
her  life. 

The  cottage  is  still.  The  servants  glide 
noiseless,  as  if  they  might  startle  the  poor 
little  sleeper.  The  house  seems  cold— -very 
cold.  Yet  it  is  summer  weather ;  and  the 
south  breeze  plays  softly  along  the  meadow, 
and  softly  over  the  murderous  eddies  of 
the  brook. 

Then  comes  the  hush  of  burial.     The 


304  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

kind  mourners  are  there  : it  is  easy  for 

them  to  mourn !  The  good  clergyman 

prays  by  the  bier : '  Oh,  Thou,  who 

did  st  take  upon  thyself  human  woe,  and 
drank  deep  of  every  pang  in  life,  let  thy 
spirit  come  and  heal  this  grief,  and  guide 
toward  that  Better  Land,  where  justice  and 
love  shall  reign,  and  hearts  laden  with  an- 
guish,  shall  rest  f orevermore  ! ' 

Weeks  roll  on ;  and  a  smile  of  resigna- 
tion lights  up  the  saddened  features  of  the 
mother.  Those  dark  mourning  robes  speak 
to  the  heart  deeper,  and  more  tenderly, 
than  ever  the  bridal  costume.  She  lightens 
the  weight  of  your  grief  by  her  sweet  words 
of  resignation  : — "  Paul,"  she  says,  "  God 
has  taken  our  boy  ! " 

Other  weeks  roll  on.  Joys  are  still  left 
— great  and  ripe  joys.  The  cottage  smil- 
ing in  the  autumn  sunshine  is  there :  the 
birds  are  in  the  forest  boughs :  Jamie  and 
little  Carry  are  there ;  and  she,  who  is  more 
than  them  all,  is  cheerful,  and  content. 
Heaven  has  taught  us  that  the  brightest 
future  has.  its  clouds; — that  this  life  is  a 
motley  of  lights  and  shadows.  And  as  we 
look  upon  the  world  around  us,  and  upon 
the  thousand  forms  of  human  misery,  there 
is  a  gladness  in  our  deep  thanksgiving. 

A  year  goes  by ;  but  it  leaves  no  added 
shadow  on  our  hearth-stone.  The  vines 


EVENING. 


clamber,  and  flourish  :  the  oaks  are  win- 
ning age  and  grandeur:  little  Carry  is 
blooming  into  the  pretty  coyness  of  girl- 
hood  ;  and  Jamie,  with  his  dark  hair,  and 
-flashing  eyes,  is  the  pride  of  his  mother. 

There  is  no  alloy  to  pleasure,  but  the 
remembrance  of  poor  little  Paul.  And 
even  that,  chastened  as  it  is  with  years,  is 
rather  a  grateful  memorial  that  our  life  is 
not  all  here,  than  a  grief  that  weighs  upon 
our  hearts. 

Somtimes,  leaving  little  Carry  and  Jamie 
to  their  play,  we  wander  at  twilight  to  the 
willow  tree,  beneath  which  our  drowned 
boy  sleeps  calmly,  for  the  Great  Awaking. 
It  is  a  Sunday,  in  the  week-day  of  our  life, 
to  linger  by  the  little  grave,—  to  hang 
flowers  upon  the  heacl-stone,  and  to  breathe 
a  prayer  that  our  little  Paul  may  sleep  well, 
m  the  arms  of  Him  who  loveth  children  ! 
And  her  heart,  and  my  heart,  knit  to- 
gether bv  sorrow,  as  they  had  been  knit  by 
joy—  a  silver  thread  mingled  with  the  gold- 
follow  the  dead  one  to  the  Land  that  is 
before  us  ;  until  at  last  we  come  to  reckon 
the  boy,  as  living  in  the  new  home,  which 
when  this  is  old,  shall  be  ours  also.  And 
my  spirit,  speaking  to  his  spirit,  in  the 
evening  watches,  seems  to  say  joyfully  _  so 
joyfully  that  the  tears  half  choke  the  utter- 
ance—  "Paul,  my  boy,  we  will  be  there!" 


3o6  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

And  the  mother,  turning  her  face  to 
mine,  so  that  I  see  the  moisture  in  her  eye, 
and  catch  its  heavenly  look,  whispers 
softly — so  softly,  that  an  angel  might  have 
said  it, — "  Yes,  dear,  we  will  be  THERE  !" 

The  night  had  now  come,  and  my  day 
under  the  oaks  was  ended.  But  a  crimson 
belt  yet  lingered  over  the  horizon,  though 
the  stars  were  out. 

A  line  of  shaggy  mist  lay  along  the  sur- 
face of  the  brook.  I  took  my  gun  from 
beside  the  tree,  and  my  shot-pouch  from 
its  limb,  and  whistling  for  Carlo — as  if  it 
had  been  Tray — I  strolled  over  the  bridge, 
and  down  the  lane,  to  the  old  house  under 
the  elms. 

I  dreamed  pleasant  dreams  that  night ; 

for  I  dreamed  that  my  Reverie  was 

real 


PUBLICATIONS  OF 

HENRY  ALTEMUS  COMPANY 

PHILADELPHIA 

ALTEMUS'  ILLUSTRATED  VADEMECUM  SERIES. 

Containing  the  most  popular  works  of  standard 
authors.  HANDY  VOLUME,  LARGE  TYPE  editions, 
•with  appropriate  text  and  full-page  illustrations. 
Superior  paper  and  printing.  Illuminated  title 
pages,  etched  portraits,  and  original  aquarelle 
frontispieces  in  eight  colors. 

Full  cloth,  ivory  finish ,  embossed  gold  and  inlaid 
colors,  with  side  titles,  boxed,  40  cents. 


I     ...     i  Abbe  Constantin.     Halevy. 

\     ...    2  Adventures  of  a  Brownie.    Mulock. 

..    3  Alice's     Adventures     in     Wonderland. 
Carroll. 

..    4  American  Notes.    Kipling. 

..    5  Autobiography  of  Benjamin  Franklin. 

..    6  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast  Table.  Holmes. 

..    7  A  Son  of  the  Carolinas.    Satterthwaite . 

..    8  Antony  and  Cleopatra.     Sha&espeare 

..     9  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream.     Shakes- 
peare. 

...  ii  Bab  Ballads  and  Savoy   Songs.     Gilbert. 

...  12  Bacon's  Essays. 

...  13  Balzac's  Shorter  Stories. 

...  14  Barrack- Room      Ballads     and     Ditties. 
Kipling. 

...  15  Battle  of  Life.    Dickens. 

...  1 6  Biglow  Papers.     Lowell. 

..17  Black  Beauty.    SewelL 

...  1 8  Blithedale  Romance,  The.    Hawthorne. 

...  19  Bracebridge  Hall.    Irving. 

...  20  Bryant's  Poems. 


Altemus'  New  Illustrated  Vademecum  Series.— Continued 

...  21  Beecher's  Addresses. 

...  22  Best  Thoughts.     Henry  Drutnmond. 

...  23  Brook's  Addresses. 

...  26  Camille.     Dumas,  Jr. 

...  27  Carmen.     Merimee. 

...  28  Charlotte  Temple.    Rowson. 

...  29  Chesterfield's    Letters,    Sentences    and 

Maxims. 

...  30  Child's  Garden  of  Verses.    Stevenson. 
...  31  Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage.    Byron. 
...  32  Chimes,  The.    Dickens. 
...  33  Christie's  Old  Organ.     Walton. 
...  34  Christmas  Carol,  A.    Dickens. 
...  35  Confessions    of   an    Opium    Eater.      De 

Quincy. 

...  36  Cranford.     Gaskell. 
...  37  Cricket  on  the  Hearth.    Dickens. 
...  38  Crown  of  Wild  Olive,  The.    Ritskin. 
...  39  Comedy  of  Errors.    Shakespeare. 
...  40  Crucifixion  of  Philip  Strong.    Sheldon. 
...  43  Day  Breaketh,  The.    Shugert. 
...  44  Days    with    Sir    Roger   De    Coverley. 

Addison. 

...  45  Discourses,  Epictetus. 
...  46  Dog  of  Flanders,  A.     Ouida. 
...  47  Dream  Life.    Mitchell. 
...  48  Dally  Food  for  Christians. 
...  49  Drummond's  Addresses. 
...  51  Emerson's  Essays,  First  Series. 
...  52  Emerson's  Essays,  Second  Series. 
...  53  Endymlon.    Keats. 
...  54  Essays  of  Ella.    Lamb. 
...  55  Ethics  of  the  Dust.    Ruskin. 
...  56  Evangeline.    Longfellow. 


K™^^^  series.-continued 


...  6i  Fairy  Land  of  Science.    Buckley 

...  62  Fanchon.    Sand. 

...  63  For  Daily  Bread.    Sienkiewicz. 

...  67  Grammar  of  Palmistry.    St.  Hill 

-  68  Greek  Heroes.    Kingsley. 

...  69  Gulliver's  Travels.    Swift. 

—  7°  Gold  Dust. 

—  73  Hamlet.     Shakespeare. 
••.  74  Hania.    Sienkiewicz. 

...  75  Haunted  Man,  The.    Dickens. 

...  76  Heroes  and  Hero  Worship.    Carlyle 

...  77  Hiawatha,  The  Song  of.    Longfellow 

...  78  Holmes'  Poems. 

...  79  House  of  the  Seven  Gables.    Hawthorne. 

...  80  House  of  the  Wolf.     Weyman. 

...  81  Hyperion.    Longfellow. 

...  87  Idle  Thoughts  of  an  Idle  Fellow.   Jerome 

...  88  Idylls  of  the  King.     Tennyson 

...  89  ImP£gnable   Rock   of   Holy   Scripture. 

...  90  In  Black  and  White.    Kipling. 
...  91  In  Memoriam.     Tennyson. 
...  92  Imitation  of  Christ.    A'Kempis 
-  93  In  His  Steps.     Sheldon. 
...  95  Julius  Caesar.    Shakespeare. 
...  96  Jessica's  First  Prayer.    Stretton 
...  97  J.  Cole.     Gellibrand. 
...  98  John  Ploughman's  Pictures.    Spurgeon 
...  99  John  Ploughman's  Talk.    Spurgeon 
...ioo  King  Richard  III.    Shakespeare. 
...ioi  Kavanagh.    Longfellow. 
...102  Kidnapped.    Stevenson. 
...103  Knickerbocker's  History  of  New  York 
Irving. 


Aliemus'  New  Illustrated  Vademecum  Series.— Continued 

...104  Keble's  Christian  Year. 

...105  Kept  for  the  Master's  Use.    Havergal. 

...106  King  Lear.    Shakespeare. 

...107  La  Belle  Nivernaise.    Daudet. 

...108  Laddie  and  Miss  Toosey's  Mission. 

...109  Lady  of  the  Lake.    Scott. 

...no  Lai  la  Rookh.    Moore. 

...in  Last  Essays  of  Elia.     Lamb. 

...112  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome,  The.     Macaulay. 

...113  Let  Us  Follow  Him.    Sienkiewicz. 

...114  Light  of  Asia.     Arnold. 

...115  Light  That  Failed,  The.    Kipling. 

...116  Little  Lame  Prince.    Mulock. 

...117  Longfellow's  Poems,  Vol.  I. 

...118  Longfellow's  Poems,  Vol.  II. 

...119  Lowell's  Poems. 

...120  Lucile.    Meredith. 

...121  Line  Upon  Line. 

...126  Magic  Nuts,  The.    Molesworth. 

...127  Manon  Lescaut.    Prevost. 

...128  Marmion.    Scott. 

...129  Master  of  Ballantrae,  The.    Stevenson. 

...130  Milton's  Poems. 

...131  Mine  Own  People.    Kipling. 

...132  Minister  of  the  World,  A.    Mason. 

...133  Mosses  from  an  Old  Manse.     Hawthorne. 

...134  Mulvaney  Stories.    Kipling. 

...135  Macbeth.     Shakespeare. 

...140  Natural    Law    in   the    Spiritual    World. 

Drummond. 
...141  Nature,  Addresses  and  Lectures. 

Emerson. 
...145  Old  Christmas.    Irving. 


- r 

Altemus'  New  Illustrated  Vademecum  Series.-Continued 

...146  Outre-Mer.    Longfellow. 

...147  Othello,  the  Moor  of  Venice.  Shakespeare. 

...150  Paradise  Lost.    Milton. 

...151  Paradise  Regained.    Milton. 

...152  Paul  and  Virginia.    Sainte  Pierre. 

...153  Peter  Schlemihl.    Chamisso. 

...154  Phantom  Rickshaw.    Kipling. 

...155  Pilgrim's  Progress,  The.    Bunyan, 

...156  Plain  Tales  from  the  Hills.    Kipling. 

...157  Pleasures  of  Life.    Lubbock. 

...158  Plutarch's  Lives. 

...159  Poe's  Poems. 

...160  Prince  of  the  House  of  David.  Ingraham. 

...161  Princess  and  Maud.     Tennyson. 

...162  Prue  and  I.     Curtis. 

...163  Peep  of  Day. 

...164  Precept  Upon  Precept. 

...169  Queen  of  the  Air.    Ruskin. 

...172  Rab  and  His  Friends.    Brown. 

...173  Representative  Men.    Emerson. 

...174  Reveries  of  a  Bachelor.    Mitchell. 

...175  Rip  Van  Winkle.    Irving. 

...176  Romance  of  a  Poor  Young  Man.    Feuillet. 

...177  Rubalyat  of  Omar  Khayyam. 

...178  Romeo  and  Juliet.    Shakespeare. 

...179  Robert  Hardy's  Seven  Days.    Sheldon. 

...182  Samantha  at  Saratoga.    U alley. 

...183  Sartor  Resartus.     Carlyle. 

...184  Scarlet  Letter,  The.    Hawthorne. 

...185  School  for  Scandal.    Sheridan. 

...186  Sentimental  Journey,  A.     Sterne. 

...187  Sesame  and  Lilies.    Ruskin. 

...188  Shakespeare's  Heroines.    Jameson. 

...189  She  Stoops  to  Conquer.    Goldsmith. 


Altemus'  New  Illustrated  Vademecum  series.— Continued 

...190  Silas  Marner.    Eliot. 
...191  Sketch  Book,  The.    Irving. 
...192  Snow  Image,  The,    Hawthorne. 
...199  Tales  from  Shakespeare.    Lamb. 
...aco  Tanglewood  Tales.    Hawthorne. 
...201  Tartarin  of  Tarascon.    Daudet. 
...202  Tartarin  on  the  Alps.    Datidet. 
...203  Ten  Nights  in  a  Bar-Room.    Arthur. 
...204  Things  Will  Take  a  Turn.     Harraden. 
...205  Thoughts.    Marcus  Aurelius. 
...206  Through  The  Looking  Glass.     Carroll. 
...207  Tom  Brown's  School  Days.    Hughes. 
...2(8  Treasure  Island.    Stevenson. 
...209  Twice  Told  Tales.     Haivthome. 
...210  Two  Years  Before  the  Mast.    Dana. 
...211  The  Merchant  of  Venice.    Shakespeare. 
...212  The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor. 

Shakespeare. 

...217  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin.    Stowe. 
...218  Undine.    Fouque. 
...222  Vic,  the  autobiography  of  a  fox-terrier. 

Marsh. 

...223  Vicar  of  Wakefield.     Goldsmith. 
...220  Walden.     Thorean. 
...227  Water-Babies.    Kingsley. 
...228  Weird  Tales.    Poe. 
...229  What  is  Art.     Tolstoi. 
...230  Whittier's  Poems,  Vol.  I. 
...231  Whittier's  Poems,  Vol    II. 
...232  Window  in  Thrums.     Harrie. 
...233  Women's  Work  in  the  Home,    Farrar. 
...234  Wonder  Book,  A.    Hawthorne. 
...241  Yellowplash  Papers,  The.      Thackeray. 
...244  Zoe.     By  author  of  Laddie,  etc. 


Henry  Altemus'  Publications. 


ALTEMUS'  ILLUSTRATED 

ONE  SYLLABLE  SERIES  FOR  YOUNG  READERS. 

Embracing  popular  works  arranged  for  the 
young  folks  in  words  of  one  syllable. 

Printed  from  extra  large  clear  type  on  fine  en- 
amelled paper  and  fully  illustrated  by  famous 
artists.  The  handsomest  line  of  books  for  young 
children  before  the  public. 

Fine  English  cloth;  handsome,  new,  original 
designs.  50  cents. 

1  /Esop's  Fables.     62  illustrations. 

2  A  Child's  Life  of  Christ.     49  illustrations. 
3!     A  Child's   Story  of  the    Bible.        72  illus- 
trations. 

4.  The  Adventures  of  Robinson  Crusoe.      70 

illustrations. 

5.  Bunyan's   Pilgrim's    Progress.        46    illus- 

trations. 

6.  Swiss  Family  Robinson.      50  illustrations. 

7.  Gulliver's  Travels.     50  illustrations. 

8.  Bible  Stories  for  Little  Children.    80  illus- 

trations. 


ALTEMUS* 
YOUNQ  PEOPLES'  LIBRARY. 

PRICE,  50  CENTS  EACH. 

Robinson  Crusoe.  (Chiefly  in  words  of  one 
syllable.)  His  life  and  strange,  surprising 
adventures,  with  70  beautiful  illustrations  by 
Walter  Paget. 

Alice's  Adventures  in  Wonderland.  With  42 
illustrations  by  John  Tenniel.  "  The  most  de- 
lightful of  children's  stories.  Elegcllt:  and 
delicious  nonsense."— "Saturday  Review." 

Through  the  Looking-glass  and  what  Alice 
Found  There.  A  companion  to  "Alice  m 
Wonderland,"  with  50  illustrations  by  John 
Tenniel. 


Altemus'  Young  Peoples'  Library.— Continued. 

Banyan's  Pilgrim's  Progress.  Arranged  for 
young  readers.  With  50  full-page  and  text 
illustrations. 

A  Child's  Story  of  the  Bible.  With  72  full-page 
illustrations. 

A  Child's  Life  of  Christ.  With  49  illustrations. 
Non-sectarian.  Children  are  early  attracted 
and  sweetly  riveted  by  the  wonderful  Story  of 
the  Master  from  the  Manger  to  the  Throne. 

Swiss  Family  Robinson.  With  50  illustrations. 
The  father  of  the  family  tells  the  tale  of  the 
vicissitudes  through  which  he  and  his  wife  and 
children  pass,  the  wonderful  discoveries  made 
and  dangers  encountered.  The  book  is  full  of 
interest  and  instruction. 

Christopher  Columbus  and  the  Discovery  of 
America.  With  70  illustrations.  Every  Am- 
erican boy  and  girl  should  be  acquainted  with 
the  story  of  the  life  of  the  great  discoverer, 
with  its  struggles,  adventures  and  trials. 

The  Story  of  Exploration  and  Discovery  in 
Africa.  With  80  illustrations.  Records  the 
experiences  of  adventures  and  discoveries  in 
developing  the  "Dark  Continent." 

The  Fables  of  /Esop.  Compiled  from  the  best 
accepted  sources.  With  62  illustrations.  The 
fables  of  ^sop  are  among  the  very  earliest 
compositions  of  this  kind,  and  probably  have 
never  been  surpassed  for  point  and  brevity. 

Gulliver's  Travels.  Adapted  for  young  readers, 
with  50  illustrations. 

Mother  Goose's  Rhymes,  Jingles  and  Fairy 
Tales.  With  234  illustrations. 

Lives  of  the  Presidents  of  the  United  States. 

By  Prescott  Holmes.     With  portraits  of  the 
Presidents  and  also  of  the  unsuccessful  candi- 


Altemus'  Young  Peoples'  Library.-Gontlnued. 

dates  for  the  office  ;  as  -well  as  the  ablest  of  the 
Cabinet  officers.     Revised  and  up-to-date. 
The  Story  of  Adventure  in  the  Frozen  Seas. 

With  70  illustrations.  By  Prescott  Holmes. 
The  book  shows  how  much  can  be  accomplished 
by  steady  perseverance  and  indomitable  pluck. 

Illustrated  Natural  History.  By  the  Rev.  J.  G. 
Wood,  with  80  illustrations.  This  author  has 
done  more  to  popularize  the  study  of  natural 
history  than  any  other  writer.  The  illustrations 
are  striking  and  life-like. 

A  Child's  History  of  England.  By  Charles 
Dickens,  with  50  illustrations.  Tired  of  listen- 
ing to  his  children  memorize  the  twaddle  of  old- 
fashioned  English  history,  the  author  covered 
the  ground  in  his  own  peculiar  and  happy  style 
for  his  own  children's  use.  When  the  work 
was  published  its  success  was  instantaneous. 

Black  Beauty  :  The  Autobiography  of  a  Horse. 
By  Anna  Sewell,  with  50  illustrations.  This 
work  is  to  the  animal  kingdom  what  '  •  Uncle 
Tom's  Cabin  "  was  to  the  Afro- American. 

The  Arabian  Nights  Entertainments.  With 
130  illustrations.  Contains  the  most  favorably 
known  of  the  stories. 

Grimm's  Fairy  Tales.  With  55  illustrations. 
The  tales  are  a  wonderful  collection,  as  in- 
teresting, from  a  literary  point  of  view,  as  they 
are  delightful  as  stories. 

Flower  Fables.  By  Louisa  May  Alcott.  With 
numerous  illustrations,  full-page  and  text. 

A  series  of  very  interesting  fairy  tales  by  the 
most  charming  of  American  story-tellers. 

Andersen's  Fairy  Tales.  By  Hans  Christian 
Andersen.  With  77  illustrations. 

These  wonderful  tales  are  not  only  attractive 
to  the  young,  but  equally  acceptable  to  those 
of  mature  years. 


Altemus'  Young  Peoples'  Library.— Continued. 

Grandfather's  Chair;  A  History  for  Youth.    By 

Nathaniel  Hawthorne.      With  60  illustrations. 
The  story  of  America  from  the  landing  of  the 
Puritans  to  the  acknowledgment  without  re- 
serve of  the  Independence  of  the  United  States. 

Aunt  Martha's  Corner  Cupboard.  By  Mary  and 
Elizabeth  Kirby,  with  60  ilhistrations.  Stories 
about  Tea,  Coffee,  Sugar,  Rice  and  Chinaware, 
and  other  accessories  of  the  well-kept  Cupboard. 

Battles  of  the  War  for  Independence.  By 
Prescott  Holmes,  -with  70  illustrations.  A 
graphic  and  full  history  of  the  Rebellion  of  the 
American  Colonies  from  the  yoke  and  oppres- 
sion of  England.  Including  also  an  account  of 
the  second  war  with  Great  Britain,  and  the 
War  with  Mexico. 

Battles  of  the  War  for  the  Union.  By  Prescott 
Holmes,  with  So  illustrations.  A  correct  and 
impartial  account  of  the  greatest  civil  war  in 
the  annals  of  history.  Both  of  these  histories 
of  American  wars  are  a  necessary  part  of  the  edu- 
cation of  all  intelligent  American  boys  and  girls. 

Water  Babies.*  By  Charles  Kingsley,  with  84 
illustrations.  A  charming  fairy  tale. 

Young  People's  History  of  the  War  with  Spain. 
By  Prescott  Holmes,  with  86  illustrations.  The 
story  of  the  war  for  the  freedom  of  Cuba, 
arranged  for  young  readers. 

Heroes  of  the  United  States  Navy.  By  Hart- 
well  James,  with  65  illustrations.  From  the 
days  of  the  Revolution  until  the  end  of  the 
War  with  Spain. 

Military  Heroes  of  the  United  States.  By 
Hartwell  James,  with  nearly  100  illustrations. 
Their  brave  deeds  from  Lexington  to  Santiago, 
told  in  a  captivating  manner. 

Uncle  Tom's  Cabin.  By  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe, 
with  50  illustrations.  Arranged  for  young 
readers. 

i     Sea    Kings  and    Naval    Heroes.      By  Hartwell 
James,  with  50  illustrations. 


Altemus'  Illustrated  Editions. 


ABBOTT'S  HISTORICAL  SERIES. 

PRICE,  50  CENTS  EACH. 

A  well-krown  and  popular  series  of  biographical  histories, 
by  JACOB  ABBOTT,  containing  the  lives  and  deeds  of  founders 
of  Empires,  Her  es  and  Heroines  of  History,  Kings,  Queens 
and  Conquerors. 

Handsomely  printed  from  large,  clear  type,  on  extra-fane 
super-calendered  paper  and  embellished  with  half-tone 
frontispieces,  numerous  full-page  and  text  illustrations  and 
maps 

...  i  Romulus,  the  Founder  of  Rome.    With  49 

illustrations. 
...  2  Cyrus    the    Great,    the    Founder    of   the 

Persian  Empire.    With  40  illustrations. 
...  3  Darius  the  Great,  King  of  the  Medes  and 

Persian.     With  34  illustrations. 
...  4  Xerxes  the  Great,  King  of  Persia.    With 

39  illustrations. 
...  5  Alexander   the  Great,  King  of  Macedon. 

With  51  illustrations. 

...  6  Pyrrhus,  King  of   Epirus.     With  45  illus- 
trations. 

...  7  Hannibal,  the  Carthaginian.     With  37  illus- 
trations. 
...  8  Julius    Ccesar,  the   Roman    Conqueror. 

With  44  illustrations. 
...  9  Alfred  the  Great,   of  England.    With  40 

illustrations. 
...10  WilHam  the  Conqueror,  of  England.  With 

43  illustrations. 
...ii  Hernando    Cortez,  the    Conqueror    of 

Mexico.     With  30  illustrations. 
...12  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots.  With  45  illustrations. 
...13  Queen    Elizabeth,    of    England.    With  49 

illustrations. 
...14  King  Charles  the  First,  of  England.    With 

41  illustrations. 
...iS  King   Charles   the  Second,    of    England. 

With  38  illustrations. 
...16  Maria  Antoinette,  Queen  of  France.    With 

41  illustrations. 


Altemus'  Illustrated  Editions.— Continued. 

...17  Madam  Roland,  A  Heroine  of  the  French 
Revolution.  With  42  illustrations. 

...18  Josephine,  Empress  of  France.  With  40 
illustrations. 


ALTEMUS*  DAINTY  SERIES  OF 
CHOICE  GIFT  BOOKS. 

PRICE,  50  CENTS. 

Bound  in  half-white  Vellum,  illuminated  sides, 
unique  design  in  gold,  with  numerous  half  tone 
illustrations.  Size,  6^x8  inches. 

...  I  The  Silver  Buckle.    By  M.  Nataline  Crump- 
ton.     With  12  illustrations. 
...  2  Charles  Dickens'  Children  Stories.    With 

30  illustrations. 
...  3  The    Children's  Shakespeare.      With    30 

illustrations. 
...  4  Young  Robin  Hood.     By  G.  Manville  Fenn. 

With  30  illustrations. 
...  S  Honor  Bright.     By  Mary  C.  Rowsell.     With 

24  illustrations. 
...  6  The  Voyage  of  the  Mary  Adair.  By  Frances 

E.  Crompton.     With  19  illustrations. 
...  7  The  Kingfisher's  Egg.     By  L.   T.  Meade. 

With  24  illustrations. 

...  8  Tattine.     By  Ruth  Ogden.      With  24  illus- 
trations. 
...  9  The  Doings  of  a  Dear  Little  Couple      By 

Mary  D.  Brine.     With  20  illustrations. 
Our  Soldier  Boy.     By  G.   Manville   Fenn. 

With  23  illustrations. 
...ii  The  Little  Skipper.     By  G.  Manville  Fenn. 

With  22  illustrations. 
...12  Little  Gervaise  and  other  Stories.    With 

22  illustrations. 
...13  The    Chris  mas    Fairy.     By  John  Strange 

Winter.     With  24  illustrations. 


ALTEMUS'  ILLUSTRATED  DEVOTIONAL  SERIES 


An  entirely  new  line  of  popular  Religious  Litera- 
ture, carefully  printed  on  fine  paper,  daintily  and 
durably  bound  in  handy  volume  size. 

Full  White  Vellum,  handsome  new  mosaic  design 
in  gold  and  colors,  gold  edges,  boxed,  50  cents. 

...  i  Abide  in  Christ.    Murray. 

...  3  Beecher's  Addresses. 

...  4  Best  Thoughts.    From  Henry  Drummond. 

...  5  Bible  Birthday  Book. 

...  6  Brooks'  Addresses. 

...  7  Buy  Your  Own  Cherries,    Kirton. 

...  8  Changed  Cross,  The. 

...  9  Christian  Life.     Oxenden. 

...10  Christian  Living.    Meyer. 

...12  Christie's  Old  Organ.     Walton. 

...13  Coming  to  Christ.    Havergal. 

...14  Daily  Food  for  Christians. 

...15  Day  Breaketh,  The.    Shugert. 

...17  Drummond's  Addresses. 

...18  Evening  Thoughts.    Havergal. 

...19  Gold  Dust. 

...20  Holy  in  Christ. 

...21  Imitation  of  Christ,  The.    A'Kempis. 

...22  Impregnable  Rock  of  Holy  Scripture. 

Gladstone. 

...23  Jessica's  First  Prayer.    Stretton. 
...24  John   Ploughman's   Pictures.     Spurgeon. 
...25  John  Ploughman's  Talk.    Spurgeon. 
...26  Kept  for  the  Master's  Use.    Havergal. 
...27  Keble's  Christian  Year. 
...28  Let  Us  Follow  Him.    Sienkiewicz. 
...29  Like  Christ.    Murray. 
...30  Line  Upon  Line. 
...31  Manliness  of  Christ,  The.    Hughes. 


Henry  Altemus'  Publications. 


...32  Message  of  Peace,  The.     ChurcJ:, 
...33  Morning  Thoughts.    Havergal. 
...34  My  King  and  His  Service.    Havergal. 
...35  Natural  Law  in  the  Spiritual  World. 

Drummond. 
...37  Pathway  of  Promise. 

...38  Pathway  of  Safety.     Oxcnden. 

...39  Peep  of  Day. 

...40  Pilgrim's  Progress,  The.    Bunyan. 

...41  Precept  Upon  Precept. 

...42  Prince  of  the  House  of  David.    Ingraham. 

...44  Shepherd  Psalm.    Meyer. 

...45  Steps  Into  the  Blessed  Life.    Meyer. 

...46  Stepping  Heavenward.    Prentiss. 

...47  The  Throne  of  Grace. 

...50  With  Christ.    Murray. 

The  Rise  of  the  Dutch  Republic  (a  History).  By  John  Loth- 
rop  Motley.  55  full-page  half-tone  Engravings.  Complete  in 
two  volumes — over  1,600  pages.  Crown  8vo.  Cloth,  per  set, 
$2.00.  Half  Morocco,  gilt  top,  per  set,  £3  25. 

Quo  Vadis.  A  tale  of  the  time  of  Nero,  by  Henryk  Sienkiewic*. 
Complete  and  unabridged.  Translated  by  Dr.  S.  A.  Biaion. 
Illustrated  by  M.  De  Lipman.  Crown  8vo.  Cloth,  ornamen- 
tal, SiS  page*,  $1.25. 

With  Fire  and  Sword.  By  the  author  of  "Quo  Vadis."  A 
tale  of  the  past.  Illustrated.  Crown  8 vo.  825  pages,  $1.00. 

Pan  Michael.  By  the  author  of  "  Quo  Vadis."  A  historical 
tale.  Illustrated.  Crown  8vo.  530  pages,  $1.00. 

Julian,  the  Apostate.  By  S.  Mereshkovski.  Illustrated.  Cloth 
121110.  450  page*,  £1.00. 

Manual  of  flythology.  For  the  use  of  Schools,  Art  Students, 
and  General  Readers,  by  Alexander  S.  Murray.  With  Notes, 
Revisions,  and  Additions  by  William  H.  Ktapp.  With  200 
illustrations  and  an  exhaustive  Index.  Large  i2mo.  Over 
400  pages,  $1.25. 

The  Age  of  Fable ;  or  Beauties  of  Mythology.  By  Thomas 
Bulfinch,  with  Notes,  Revisions,  and  Additions  by  William  H. 
Klapp.  With  200 illustrations  and  an  exhaustive  Index.  Large 
I2mo.  450  pages,  ^.25. 

Stephen.  A  Soldier  of  the  Cross.  By  Florence  Morse 
Kingsley,  author  of"  Titus,  a  Comrade  of  the  Cross."  Cloth, 
i2mo.  369  pages,  $1.00. 


Henry  Altemus'  Publications. 


By  Elizabeth  R.ScovH.     Cloth,  12mo. 
l.  Cloth, 


Scovil.     Cloth, 

"  Helen's       j 


Umf 

prose  idyll."     Cloth,  gitVp,         ud^?     *,  oo       4X 

4         ^-  -—      loth. 

xMr,  E.B.Duffy.    CIoth, 


Dore  Masterpieces. 


L°8t' 


ving,  by  Gu,- 
by  Gus^C 


-yssu'ss:  of  the  King-  wu 
hS^^^^ 

Lloth,  ornamental,  large  quarto  (9  x  M)f    Each  $,.oo. 


ALTEMUS'  EDITION  SHAKESPEARE'S  PLAYS. 
HANDY  VOLUME  SIZE. 

With  a  historical  and  critical  introduction  to  each 
volume,  by  Professor  Henry  Morley. 


Limp  cloth  binding,  gold  top,  illuminated  title 

and  frontispiece 35  cts. 

Paste-grain  roan,  flexible,  gold  top    ...  50  cts. 

1.  All's  Well  that  Ends  Well. 

2.  Antony  and  Cleopatra. 

3.  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream* 

4.  As  You  Like  It. 

5.  Comedy  of  Errors. 

6.  Corlolanus. 

7.  Cymbeline. 

8.  Hamlet. 

9.  Julius  C;csar. 

0.  King  Henry  IV.  (Part  I.) 

1.  King  Henry  IV.  (Part  II.) 

2.  King  Henry  V. 

3.  King  Henry  VI.  (Part  I.) 
King  Henry  VI.  (Part  II.) 
King  Henry  VI.  (Part  III.) 
King  Henry  VIII. 

King  John. 
King  Lear. 
King  Richard  I!. 
King  Richard  HI. 
Love's  Labour's  Lost. 

2.  Macbeth. 

3.  Measure  for  Measure. 
Much  Ado  About  Nothing. 

5.  Othello. 

36.  Pericles. 

37.  Romeo  and  Juliet. 

38.  The  Merchant  of  Venice. 

29.  The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor. 

30.  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew. 

31.  The  Tempest. 

32.  The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona. 

33.  The  Winter's  Tale. 

34.  Timon  of  Athens. 

35.  Titus  Andronlcus. 

36.  Troilus  and  Cressida. 

37.  Twelfth  Might. 

38.  Venus  and  Adonis  and  Lucrece. 

39.  Sonnets,  Passionate  Pilgrim,  Etc. 


.  LIBRARY  FACILmr 

1  i 

A     000034454    9 


